


Blinded

by AndeliaMaddock



Series: For the Birds [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alcohol, Belting, Birds, Bondage, Burning Skin, Choking, Cigarettes, Creampie, Dirt - Freeform, First Time Bottoming, Forced Nudity, Gardening, Internal Conflicts, Knives, M/M, Mind Break, Mind Games, NCR territory, Non-Consensual Anal, Non-Consensual Blowjobs, Non-Consensual Hand Jobs, Prisoner of War, Reading, Shaving, Subjugation, Torture, forced bondage, mindfuckery, non-consensual anal fingering, or at the LEAST its dubcon for those times when vulpes is like YEAH FUCK YOU I CAN PLAY TOO, sorry - Freeform, there will be NO slow burn everyone is happy and healed in this story, this whole thing is just non-consensual everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-20 01:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11325396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndeliaMaddock/pseuds/AndeliaMaddock
Summary: Shame formed in a heavy lump, until he swallowed it down his dry throat. If his consumption led to his capture and it was discovered, he'd be crucified. Lucius himself would likely be the one to haul him up, as Lucius always had it out for him ever since he'd risen into the ranks of the frumentarii.If he escaped, if no one had to know, he could find his way back to Caesar's good graces. Caesar didn't even have to know why he was so interested in ensuring that all went according to what Caesar wanted.Vulpes hadn't felt fear from the wrong side of things in years, not since that idiot centurion--long since dead and not to be missed or noted-- had demanded that he be lashed to the cross for being brilliant. So orders were broken? He'd won a battle that otherwise would have lost dozens more men before its completion. He won the war, really.---Set in a world where Craig Boone has faced Bitter Springs once more and been told war happens and sometimes you just do awful things, too bad. He's taken that to heart, unfortunately for Vulpes.Updates daily.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Blame TinyFakeFanficRock for writing such an awful Vulpes that makes me want to just *clenches fists*.

He could feel a single patch of light, a warm caress against exposed skin on top of his neck and face; he determined there was a window nearby or some other form of warmth in a surprisingly cool place. Likely, it was a basement or cellar, something meant to keep cool, even amidst the Mojave heat.

With slow movements and steady shifts, he tested his bonds. Thick and scratchy rope, likely a hemp-blend from before the Old World ended, restrained him and dug into his skin enough to make him acutely aware of everywhere the rope touched. Wrists, throat, ankles, all were bound and then bound together in what he believed to be several independent parts. He could work with that.

Whoever tied him, they had done it while he was unconscious, unfortunately. In that, they'd prevented him from balling his fists and faking docility in order to create space and give himself slack to escape. Not that such a thorough rope job would be foiled with his normal escape tactics. He couldn't bite a single square knot and free himself when each shift and tug tightened the rope wound about his throat.

In the distance, perhaps along a tree or other perch, a familiar bird called out in a declaration, 'no hope, no hope'. Amusing, that a dove-- one known for being a messenger of peace and love--might call out such a grim assessment of his situation. Less amusing was how often he'd pointed out that very call to his special guests; it had always been an accurate statement for them.

He made a concerted effort to restrain his breathing in order to listen more carefully. Beyond the call of the mocking bird, he couldn't hear anything. No brahmin calls, low and rounded. No bighorners with their tamping steps against the desert floor. No ravens with sharp cries and heavy beating wings to carry them to their scavenged meals.

He took a deep silent breath and attempted to work his bonds once more. Nostrils flared on the inhale and he felt a beat of disgust rise up. Mildew. The basement idea took off with that scent, gave him something to hang on to mentally while he worked his wrists in an attempt to buy some slack between the coils of rope. He inhaled again as he rubbed his wrists together in tight friction. Somewhere in the room hung the acrid tang of smoke. It wasn't near, but it was fresh.

Though he stilled his escape attempt and listened, nothing sounded. It was fresh but that didn't mean someone was present.

Vulpes relaxed against his bonds and attempted to gain mental bearings.

Legion men weren't to be captured. Frumentarii especially were to remain free and able to go about their business, spying on and spreading discord among the enemy.

Silus had been captured, he'd bent himself over for NCR troopers to take him in, instead of honoring Caesar and remaining loyal until death. For it, he'd been killed gruesomely. Antonius had been anything but when he'd willingly fraternized with an insignificant NCR man who'd offered nothing to Caesar in terms of usefulness. He'd been caught by NCR but reclaimed and crucified by Vulpes himself.

Hydration wouldn't be a pressing issue yet, but with the bit of alcohol he drank during his time incognito in that city of vices, he was a bit more concerned. Though imbibing went against several laws and codes of conduct, men like himself were allowed so long as they did so only to maintain a cover. Surely no one discovered his identity? With his dapper suit and hat, he'd blended in as any other gambler in the immoral casino.

Shame formed in a heavy lump, until he swallowed it down his dry throat. If his consumption led to his capture and it was discovered, he'd be crucified. Lucius himself would likely be the one to haul him up, as Lucius always had it out for him ever since he'd risen into the ranks of the frumentarii.

If he escaped, if no one had to know, he could find his way back to Caesar's good graces. Caesar didn't even have to know why he was so interested in ensuring that all went according to what Caesar wanted.

Vulpes hadn't felt fear from the wrong side of things in years, not since that idiot centurion--long since dead and not to be missed or noted-- had demanded that he be lashed to the cross for being brilliant. So orders were broken? He'd won a battle that otherwise would have lost dozens more men before its completion. He won the war, really.

Fear bubbled up painfully even against his attempts to reason with it, like furious red blisters over a nude body lashed to a pole and left to bake in the sun. He felt it tear through him, he felt it shock his body into shaking. Finally, he forced himself still, he coaxed himself through it.

Vulpes Inculta was not a coward, not ever, and certainly not then. Though it was a reasonable response to have, he could overcome it. Legion men did not have such weaknesses for long and he certainly wasn't some young boy again who struggled to adjust.

He exhaled and felt the stress of the situation evaporate a bit, like the sweat on his skin. "It's fine," an assurance to himself, a quiet noise in the near silence.

"Is it?" A metal flick sounded, followed by the clear sound of a flame. The rough voice remained somewhere in the near distance, just far enough away that Vulpes still couldn't hear their breaths, even though they clearly had been in the room the entire time.

"It will be."

A wry laugh carried over and slapped Vulpes.

He felt a sneer tug at his lips and he didn't fight it down. "You must feel exceptionally proud of yourself, capturing a drunken man and tying them up while they're unconscious."

"Is this the part where you tell me I've made a big mistake? That I'm going to regret doing this? I know who you are. I know exactly what you've done." No small amount of amusement dripped over those dark words.

"Whoever you are, you have no idea how far the wrath of the Legion carries."

"So you don't know who I am?"

Damn it all. This is why the Legion beat out fear, and disloyalty, and any number of undesirable traits. While true anyone could feel brief moments of those things, to allow them to color responses was unforgivable. He knew better.

Still, the situation could be salvaged. "Don't assume."

Another laugh, with about as much edge. Whoever it was ended it with a deep exhale.

That disgusting smell assaulted him once more and he found himself thankful tobacco was one more thing banned within the Legion. He'd never felt the urge to even try it.

The man rose. Heavy boots sounded against the concrete, a clear sign whoever wore them wanted to be heard. Each step was slow and deliberate, with heel stamping down, followed by a slow roll forward onto toes. Repeat, and it took 15 steps before the man in question stood tall beside Vulpes.

Instincts demanded cowardly things but training told him that he was far removed from simpletons who broke down from nothing more than fear. He breathed evenly and remained still, waited for some information he could use to reverse the situation.

Whoever it was, they remained silent above him. The only information that proved to Vulpes that someone was even there was the loud steps so near and the more apparent smell of smoke.

Material shifted, likely of a thick cloth. Maybe cargo pants. It wasn't that he could tell from only the smell, but he'd heard boots like that on cold cement floors like the one he was on, and they were often soldier boots.

This man was NCR. Definitely. No one else would go through such trouble to get him.

Smoke came closer, clouds of darkness that sucked into his lungs of their own volition and choked at him like the fires of Nipton. Like in Nipton, he didn't react to the burning scent. It didn't serve him well to let others know he responded like a human too. Better to have them believe him above such things, to have them know he was worthy of his title.

He was above such things. He was.

Vulpes curled his lips and made an attempt to turn himself away from them a bit. "I'd advise you to quit for your health, but you won't live much longer anyway. You might as well enjoy what time you have left."

"I'd say the same to you, but you won't. Unless you're really as fucked as I understand." The words had a casual, almost conversational, tone to them.

He opened his mouth to reply, only to taper it into a grunt. Pain burned into his skin where a cigarette pushed ashes out as though he were nothing more than a living ashtray.

"Well, you didn't seem to enjoy that. Maybe you only like burning bodies when they're not yours?"

Perhaps it was a mention of Nipton that clung to his most forward memories? He focused on the information given and any context it could apply to, instead of how that lighter cap flicked back near his face and then he felt the heated glow of flames a moment later.

"Answer me."

To pretend to give in could buy time but it would also require far more potential information handed over to the enemy. Too much given and it hardly mattered if you were a turncoat, you went the way of Silus and Antonius. To resist every step of the way, aside from initial blunders, was to make torture and death more likely at the hands of the enemy, but was also to give you a chance to escape and gather intel to make you worthy of forgiveness.

A mixture of the two had worked with frumentarii under him, like Cato and Karl. Both had been captured and--

The lighter singed at Vulpes’ throat. He grunted and attempted to roll onto his back but the bonds didn't allow that movement without tightening dangerously around his throat. He felt the skin redden and blister above where the rope choked him.

"Not a man of words? That's surprising since you like to give sermons." A hand caught him by the tiny thick hairs on his head and tugged him onto his side once more. The grip wasn't pleasant.

The ropes loosened enough he could breathe but only enough.

So it was Nipton. Whoever it was, they were almost definitely an errant Nipton citizen. Were they one that had left on business for a few days and come back to find all those they knew scorched and crucified?

"You're afraid you might betray the Legion."

"I would never."

"You've already been caught. Legion doesn't look kindly on that."

"You know nothing." How his throat begged to speak more, even as it cried out for an aloe. But he remained still and silent.

"I prefer to use a rifle. It's less personal."

This man had a personal vendetta against him, evidence suggested. That they had the opportunity to kill Vulpes from a distance, or even up close, and they chose to give him a chance to escape so they could torture him implied some sort of vengeance motivations. The desire to make things personal when they usually didn't confirmed it, to his mind.

"You'll punish me then, is it? Do you hope to lash me for my sins until I beg forgiveness?" He goaded them, pushed for more information even if it carried on the back of pain. He wouldn't be broken.

"Yes. Lashing could work. Forgiveness? Not happening. You can beg if you want. It would make this more fun."

More fun. Personal vendetta, not merely a rampant sadist, but with a heavy dose of that in the mix. They had some clear 'moral' high ground as far as they were concerned.

Between them, there was silence again but he subtly tensed in expectation of another burn. He waited for that flick of the lighter again, for some sign he was about to take an injury. He heard nothing more than the dry rattle of the bird's wings nearby as it took off. How lucky the winged rodent was, to be able to escape so easily.

"I'm glad you're awake. You took long enough. I thought you Legion men weren't supposed to drink."

How did their face get so close? He hadn't heard them bend in.

This wasn't just a Nipton citizen, this was someone more than that. One of those men must have been ex-NCR. Or, perhaps, they were an NCR man who'd been late to the party, or they hid somewhere else when Vulpes had held the lottery.

How lucky for them.

A flick of the lighter, "So how come you drank? That doesn't say lead frumentarii to me."

"Lead _frumentarius_ , of the frumentarii."

The heat came close enough to his face to send the same message the noise of the metallic lighter had, only stronger, "So how come you drank?"

Half-truths and omissions were his game, "Sometimes even men such as myself need to relax." And gather information on profligates who frequented Gomorrah. Several very important ones had been in there, of late.

A soft little laugh sounded, restrained but present, and then the metal cap cut the heat back with a snap and the arm that held the lighter aloft pulled back with just enough noise. "Men such as yourself. Where do you find the time between burning towns to the ground, dumping nuclear waste over settlements, starting slave trading over the river, and kidnapping pregnant women? You must be exhausted."

He kept himself from an immediate reply by letting out a low sigh. Vulpes tugged his cards closer to his chest, instead of waving them about in bitter triumph. "Well, with all that needs to be done out this far west, my work really never is done. But what can I do, besides what I'm so good at?"

Material shifted again and the man stood once more, pivoted with a soft subdued squeak of boots on concrete, then stomped back to where he'd been before. Those heavy boots took the man up ten stairs. The seventh step creaked with the weight. At the top, a heavy wooden door opened, shut, and a heavy bolt sounded in place.

He felt a surge of satisfaction at their retreat.

Reinvigorated, he attempted to find a weak point within the loops of rope tied expertly around his body. Even those skilled in bondage had spots they overlooked. He'd done it once, and only once, himself. This Boone man wouldn't be so good that Vulpes Inculta, head frumentarius, couldn't escape.

After an estimated half hour of ineffective wriggles and shifting, he realized there was no way at the moment for him to escape his binds. Undeterred, he smiled to himself. He would escape. No one could keep a fox down. If he had to trick Boone into releasing him though, that was just as fine. He’d been bestowed his name for a reason.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vulpes is undeterred.

He had gone through far worse tortures.

"You look uncomfortable." The thick-toed boot pressed against Vulpes’ stomach.

There was no warmth on his cheek from the sunlight anymore but a warmth threatened to spread through his lower body. What had that Gomorrah whore said to him when he'd stood to use the facilities? 'Don't break the seal'? He'd done so and he regretted it there, with Boone's boot against his bladder.

"I'm as well as I can be, considering." He would not shame himself in word or actions. Vulpes Inculta would not be weak.

The boot dug deeper, but blessedly it also rose up away from the bladder and pushed flesh under Vulpes’ ribcage. Painful as it was, it was a far less humiliating experience and so Vulpes enjoyed the pain over the alternative.

"Considering what?" Boone, bastard that he was, lit up again.

He couldn't tell if it was to burn the cigarette out on his skin again or to relieve stress like he'd seen others do. Was it only a prop, or did Boone actually crave the repulsive caress of nicotine and smoke?

The boot pressed more insistently at Vulpes and steel-toed ends forced more flesh to pinch and catch beneath ribs. "Answer."

Boone didn't like to repeat himself.

Vulpes sighed and did his best to not let it sound like what it wanted to be. "Considering you're stomping my insides, I'm doing fine." He left the pained sneer on his lips, focused on breathing through the pain.

"No I'm not."

"Oh?" Not what? Oh. No.

At first, he didn't feel it as anything more than the absence of pressure, followed by a heavy weight on his ribs and lower. The foot all dropped at once, with a surprising amount of force behind it. Half a beat later, it all blossomed forth into far more pain than he was interested in.

If he had been unable to breathe easy before, with the rope so secure around his bulging neck, that stomp drove any ease out and forced him to gasp and wheeze. There was no recourse, no clever way out of it. Tears worked at the corners of his eyes and left him grateful for his blindfold.

The boot remained in place, all heavy solid rubber and NCR aggression ready to press a pattern into his ribs and stomach.

He'd be lucky if his ribs weren't broken. He shifted against his binds, attempted to find a sweet spot a bit more protected from Boone. It wouldn't work, it would likely backfire, but if he didn't give a bit more slack to the ropes that led to his neck, he'd be dead soon anyway. That was a last resort, suicide by enemy means.

Boone seemed to allow it though. He moved his boot up a bit further, onto the side of Vulpes’ ribs, but didn't push too hard down. "You look uncomfortable."

What a brilliantly astute observation. It was miraculous he hadn't been recruited to be a doctor or a scientist in the NCR and instead he'd been taken as a sniper. How could they possibly have passed up such an opportunity?

Vulpes could almost feel the smirk. It wasn't in tone, or words, or anything else. It was simply a deep-rooted sensation that he was being mocked. "Well, I'm about as comfortable as I can be with a boot directly on my ribs and my appendages all tied to my neck." Only because he'd rolled to his side could he even breathe again, only because of it could he speak. He certainly wanted to stay there.

"It's not."

Not... what? The boot? Wasn't-- Vulpes heard the generally satisfactory schink of a knife swinging open. It did not satisfy him.

Cold basement cement didn't assist him with the chill that gathered throughout his body. For a moment, even the discomfort and outright pain were ignored and he simply felt the dawning fear, icy down his spine.

Knives were not good in the hands of profligates, especially unhinged ones like this.

Boone stepped back, freed Vulpes a bit from the ever-present pressure, and then seemed to crouch down beside Vulpes.

He could hear that breathing. Boone did it on purpose. He had to, the man was silent all other times.

Smoke exhaled onto his cheek, drifted into his nostrils, and he attempted to shift away from it.

A hand caught at the top of his collared shirt and a knife pressed against the fabric and needlessly cut it. Though it would be easy to simply slice the buttons away to open the shirt, Boone went through it at the seams in a methodical manner. The shirt was ruined, with no seamstress in the Legion skilled enough to fix it without creating another shirt entirely.

He'd rather liked that shirt. The crisp white was pure, even after time had threatened it with so many stains. It was fine though. Boone had likely ruined it already with his smoking and burning and filthy boot touches, and definitely with how he made Vulpes remain on the floor on his back and sides. Fine, it was just as well they cut it away. He would find another and make it look as good.

Then the boot returned, a reminder that Boone was in charge. "Now it is."

Yes yes, the boots were truly on his ribs then. He understood it fine. This was why he told the men under him to not speak if you didn't have to. To give even simple sentences was to give your enemy, your captor, an opportunity to use your own words as a weapon.

Idly, he brushed through the bruising pain and he considered if there was some sort of furniture or support beam that Boone used to help balance. From experience, Vulpes knew that keeping a boot on a bound person on the ground was no easy task without something to hold on to.

If Boone was too proud to use something like that, if he was too stupid, then it would be only a matter of shifting hard enough and suddenly enough to tip him over. If he could find a way to cut at the bonds to disconnect wrist from ankles and neck, he'd be even closer to salvation.

"Are you hungry?"

"No." He wasn't a fool.

"I could eat," Boone then lifted his boot. There went the fifteen stomps to the stairs, the ten heavy footsteps up the ancient wood, and then the door slammed shut and locked.

It was an amateur mistake. To make such a production of things could certainly play the sort of mind games other frumentarius were known for, but he himself was above such things. Better to not let the captive know exactly where you are, where you're going. Better to allow them to believe you could be anywhere, at any time. Boone would have been far better served to be as silent as he was when just above Vulpes.

Fool.

Vulpes inhaled and attempted to wriggle with slight shifts of hips and shoulders until he reached something sturdy. A slow analysis of it with shoulder, knees, ankles, and bound wrists revealed it to be a table. The legs came down straight and not at an angle as they did on some tables.

Something sharp caught at his shoulder and he startled back. Blood seemed to well up from the site of the injury.

He smiled. Sharp. Sharp was good. A quick survey indicated it was a screw or loose nail. Something had fallen apart there, something had lost a piece of itself. His gain.

Vulpes wriggled back and did his best to lift it up between constrained fingers. Careful, patient, he moved the piece of somewhat gritty metal about in his sensitive fingers and determined it was indeed a screw. All the better. It gave him more purchase, more space to work with.

Above him the house was silent, no doubt because Boone didn't feel the need to go against his nature and stomp about like an idiot while Vulpes was safely restrained down in the basement.

Time didn't tick in his head as he worked, but an increased urge to relieve himself did and it shifted his patient movements and turned them into rushed motions. A few times, he moved too much and made the rope about his neck tugged far too tight. An adjustment later, he could relax a bit more and focus on the task but there was still that need.

Damn Boone.

He wished very much that his blindfold wasn't tied so well that even subtle shifts from his head did nothing more than tighten the rope and leave him just as unable to see. It would be far easier to work with sight but he decided to go without. At least until he got his hands--

Free. Not quite, but close enough. They weren't connected to his neck anymore and that left him with so many options.

Vulpes sat upright, no longer afraid to choke himself to death. With added range of motions, he found himself able to slice through the rope with little sawing motions of the tip and sides of the screw. While the sharp edges sliced at his own fingers and left them sore, he'd been through worse already that day and could handle it.

Success. The rope that tied his feet to his wrists frayed enough he could break free.

Satisfaction coiled through his body, despite all the pain that lingered and clawed at his consciousness. He worked with steady movements until the square knot that bound his ankles severed and then it was a simple case of unlooping the rope and standing up, with care to remain silent.

He stilled and waited, as a precaution. When no sound was forthcoming, not even the mocking call of the corvids outside, he continued. He reached up and tugged the blindfold free. Darkness still prevailed but a simple line of shimmering moonlight blessed him with the barest amount of vision. He strode into it and went back to work.

The screw wasn't so easy to use against his wrists, so he leaned over the circular table and searched for something useful. No such luck, even in the darkness he could tell it was empty. Careful steps to the walls to look for exposed nails turned up nothing as well, only crumbles of brick dust broke free with his prodding. 

He attempted to simply bring himself into the dim light and bite at the square knot but that quickly went nowhere. It wasn't just a square knot, it was something a bit more complex, woven in with little bits of twine. Bastard. He'd really wanted Vulpes' hands to stay tied.

That was fine.

Vulpes could reach the window with little more than a careful lift of the table and some steady maneuvering. He didn't have full use of his hands but he had more than enough to get the job done. From there, he carefully clambered over the shaky table and positioned himself before the window.

He wasn't as thin as he had been as a boy but he certainly was still sleek in profile. Though the window was small, he felt certain he could climb through. He only needed a bit of leverage.

With a deep inhale followed by a long measured exhale, he lifted himself to the window, pushed it outward and up, and pulled himself free with shifts and shakes of his shoulders and hips. It wasn't a comfortable fit and he felt certain he'd get stuck at several agonizing junctures, but he scrambled and clawed and found purchase even with rocks and seeds and dirt that attempted to shift and force him to tumble backward.

The moonlight caressed his skin, soaked into his burns and bruises, and made him appreciate how cooling the effects of the desert moon could be. He certainly didn't worship it like the pathetic men of that tribe he'd destroyed back east but he could appreciate it a bit more for this experience. 

He narrowed his eyes and searched for any sign of where to go; a walking path loosely outlined itself against the desert ground to the right, and a main road seemed to spread out into the distance to the right. Wherever he was, it was remote and unfamiliar and mountainous.

Padding steps brought him towards a shed to the left. Some freshly dug dirt, richer than most in the area, bore a few mutfruit, broc flowers, and some xander root. Quickly, he lifted up a bit of the flowers and picked two of the roots and stuffed them into his pocket for use later. This Boone seemed to have something of a green thumb despite his skill at killing.

Other things appeared to be growing, with each plot with its own separate types of plants, but he ignored those. He stepped past the garden and the sectioned-off patch of undisturbed dirt. A shovel stood upright in it, with a box beside it that seemed to contain a sachet of seeds; he wasn't certain and didn't much care what those seeds were.

The shovel, however, interested him. Given the choice between a shovel to use as a weapon and a few mutfruit to sate his hunger, he picked a shovel.

He would have picked the shovel. But Boone picked it up first, with easy motions and a deliberate smirk that said he'd expected this.

Vulpes stepped back, though not in defeat. He was stronger than that.

Boone stepped forward, shovel raised in hand.

He ran. If he was shot, then so be it. But he refused to face capture again.

Up a mountainous trail, he went, with a heart that betrayed him and pounded too hard for him to hear how close Boone was, or if Boone even bothered to pursue.

Sweat stung at his cuts and burns, it seeped into him and reminded him of exactly the situation he was in. He couldn't see, but for patches of moonlight that filtered around thick obscuring clouds; he couldn't breathe with how the rope about his neck shifted and pulled tighter with every heavy footfall; he couldn't hear beyond his own pained thoughts and the rapid pulse that filled his being.

The path wound along, with rocks that shifted underfoot and threatened to topple him with every step, but he managed to keep along it. Without a straight shot, Boone would have to--

Boone lifted the shovel up over his shoulder and offered that same even smirk. "Going somewhere?"

Impossible. He'd been ahead of Boone, this was impossible. Reality didn't work that way. He was always, always the one who got the drop on others.

Boone's steps were supposed to be loud, heavy bootfalls against cement like in the basement. But there, even with rocks that crunched and rolled, Boone remained silent and stepped forward. He didn't even seem out of breath.

Vulpes took another step back, ready to pivot and flee once more. He hadn't given up Legion information, no one had to know about this. He could be gone and Boone couldn't capture him again.

Boone sighed, not a laborious exhale, but a simple soft one. Less like he was immensely put out, and more like he felt mild irritation, as though this were nothing more than a priestess chasing down a rambunctious toddler within a child pen.

He did not appreciate it. He didn't appreciate how easily Boone cornered him either like this had been a part of the plan. Boone, as far as his extensive reports into the filthy profligate went did not think this far ahead. The idiot thought about as far as shooting his pregnant woman in the skull and then running and hiding in that pathetic dinosaur, then crawling into his room and drinking away his existence.

That was not this Boone.

The shovel rose and Vulpes couldn't protect himself with more than raised wrists and elbows up. He couldn't run, not with the rocks he'd been tricked against with Boone's steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to sharply increase in how fucked up they are. You're warned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boone begins the first reading time with Vulpes.
> 
> Vulpes is unsatisfied with this.

 

Cold water wrenched a gasp from him. He tried to sit up, but a hand caught at his throat and held him under the rusty water.

He turned his head enough to keep from letting it enter his nose and mouth, to keep from drowning under the bitter tasting water .

"You made a mess."

Oh. He was nude, wasn't he? He should have known.  Another time, being nude in front of another man wouldn't bring any shame up; after all, Legion men  consistently were nude around one another, as it was a normal and healthy thing . But here, in front of a filthy  _ profligate _ ,  being told he had made a mess was too much. "You're covered in dirt yourself."

"You must have drank too much."

No. A fresh wash of shame poured over him as the water iced over his body. He wanted to tug away from the other but that hand held fast at his nape.

"Do you know who I am?"

Vulpes felt a swell of amusement but he forced it back and shook his head.

He plucked a bar of soap from a lopsided metal holder attached to the wall, then worked it down against Vulpes' face.

Burning lye soap bubbled into his eyes, nose, and mouth. Each time he tried to cough, to force it out, Boone turned his head so the frigid water choked him further.

"I know you're a liar, but not to me." He pushed the bar of soap into Vulpes' mouth and held it there.

He struggled, attempted to shift jangling chains that bound his wrists and ankles together . Weak attempts were to  be discouraged , but his weren't weak, even if they were ineffectual. Water splashed high over the edge of the chipped porcelain and soaked at Boone.

Throughout the struggles, Boone held the soap down. "Did you use the nail or the screw?" Boone released the soap.

It arched out of Vulpes' mouth and slid down onto his bared chest.  He blustered and this time actually turned towards the water, attempted to take some of it in even if it was too much at once, so long as he could get rid of the burning .

Boone reached for the soap, held it up in his palm. "Did you find the screw near you? Or did you find the nail under the table leg?"

No. No, that wasn't true. Boone had not allowed him-- though it would make sense.  Boone was playing at clever, so if he'd given Vulpes the means to escape, an  exceptionally stupid thing to do, then it meant Boone had planned to catch him as well .  That was the only reason he'd  been captured again, he hadn't known the layout of the place and he had been working against someone who had wanted to chase .

Vulpes could  easily outsmart this NCR dog. "The nail." He waited for the soap, needed to know if Boone knew the truth.

Instead, Boone nodded and helped Vulpes sit up.

Vulpes felt his shoulders relax, despite the shiver that coursed through his frame.  He didn't  physically check the shackles that bound him, but he did examine them with inspecting glances .

Boone put both hands about Vulpes' throat. "I said, don't lie to me."

Even men such as himself had weaknesses. A startling one was the necessity to breathe.

\---~~~---

Nudity still didn't bother him. Not even when he was nude and bound. He  was unbothered . He didn't care in the least.

The only real trouble was it was a bit chilly outside of the light in the basement. Morning streamed in through the  treacherously small window, but it didn't warm him. Whether their elevation had something to do with it too, he could only imagine. It  certainly had seemed like they were high up, but he couldn't be sure.  He wasn't high enough for snow to cling to the ground, so that at least meant he had a chance of escaping, even nude, without freezing to death .

Not that he'd escape nude. No, next time he would kill Boone, remove that  additional obstacle.  Yes, Boone would die--  quickly , despite his innumerable crimes-- and Vulpes would remove that dirty clothing and wear it for as long as it took to find a more suitable set of clothes .

Though,  really ? Once he was in a position to kill Boone, he'd be in a position to capture the man. Why kill the dog, when he could beat them and break them far beyond what he'd done with that whore. He'd tell Boone about it too, remind Boone of the past and Boone's unforgivable failures. Bitter Springs. Carla. The fetus that never stood a chance-- well, he'd have to say baby, wouldn't he? It wouldn't do to make a disconnect that would allow Boone distance.  Perhaps he'd say unborn child, someone with such potential to turn out like either of the parents.

Instead, Boone had murdered them both.

Boone would beg to  be killed , wouldn't he? For all his stern words and smug smirks, he wouldn't be able to handle  being reminded of his failures.

Vulpes would keep Boone locked away. He'd keep him there for a few days and then send some men up to remove him. Boone would  be gagged , of course. He  certainly didn't want Boone able to tell the others what Vulpes had been up to.  But once Boone was  safely secured in one of Vulpes' own private residences, he could take the time that  truly was necessary to craft Boone into one of his favorite captives yet .

He smiled, despite the shiver that tugged at his bones and made him chatter his teeth.

Boone opened the door at the top of the steps. This time, all steps but the seventh from the bottom were silent. That one, it was louder than it had been before.  Clearly , it needed to be replaced, if it degraded so  easily .

Boone stepped over to him.  He couldn't quite make out the facial expressions or what Boone looked like, even with the bare morning sunlight that filtered through the grimy window .  Sunshine didn't quite reach Boone and it left Vulpes unable to see much more than the bold lines of white shirt and green cargo pants against the darkness .

Motion, then light from above. The bulb shifted and swayed on the end of a chain, unfiltered by a shade, but still dim enough it didn't startle too much.

Boone moved to sit down in a comfortable looking chair behind Vulpes.

He hadn't even noticed the chair there. Vulpes snorted. "I'm surprised you can read."

"You're not the first one to say that."  He settled into the chair, a contrast of dirty white tee and camo pants against an old-fashioned faded floral . Arms settled down on duct taped armrests and Boone pulled the thick book open on his lap.

"I'm sure I won't be the last either."

Boone smirked wider, like behind his face he harbored a secret.

Vulpes was good at secret extractions. He shifted a bit closer, attempted to keep his chains from rattling too much.

Boone didn't glance up. He did lift his feet though.

Vulpes grit his teeth. "That's not where feet go."

"No?" Boone shifted his weight a bit, added more to Vulpes' chest, then stretched out.

"No." Profligate. Whoreson. Bastard.

Boone flipped past the first few pages, no doubt the copyright page, introduction, and  possibly even a foreword with how many pages accumulated to the left of the book . He tapped a finger, then nodded and scanned green eyes across the page at a glacial rate.

Vulpes couldn't even see the title.  One didn't judge a book by its cover but you  absolutely could learn a lot about a person by the titles of books they consumed . "What is that?"

"A book."

He'd walked into that one. Momentary irritation smoothed back into a softer tone, "No, what is the book called? What's the title?"

Boone lifted the book and turned it quick, before Vulpes could read the faded gold lettering himself . "Harriet the Spy."

Amusing as that title was, it served no real threat to him. It was nothing more than a children's book, an insipid one at that. He'd flipped through a copy once that another frumentarius had given him. He'd  promptly had it burned, finding it useless despite the appealing name.

How did a man who found a book like that worthy of reading manage to capture one like Vulpes?  It was the alcohol; this was why Caesar had outlawed it as one of his first rules when he'd brought order East, he'd known of the dangers .  Just like in Rome before, Caesar outlawed things that lead to sloth and dissolution.

When he finished filleting Boone, peeling back skin until only those thick muscles  were exposed , he'd go find some important knowledge . The most important knowledge.  He'd bring it to Caesar, insist he ran straight there like brave and loyal Pheidippides had in eons gone by, eager to dispense tide-turning knowledge to his Lord .  Though the knowledge he would gather would not be something as simple as knowing that they'd win, Caesar would use it to ensure that they would . He would steer the Legion West, all with Vulpes’ help.

Boone crossed one leg onto the other, left a single point of painful contact on Vulpes’ chest. That heel dug in a bit until Boone seemed to return to comfort. He flipped a page.

“You must know who I am.” Vulpes looked up to him.

“Yeah.”

“Then you know what I’m going to do to you.”

“No.” Boone licked two fingertips, then flipped another page. 

“I’ll go  slowly .”

“Alright.” Boone focused on the book and scanned at the correct rate to actually appear like he was reading.

Vulpes wouldn’t  truly read in a game like this. He might skim, but every other part of him would be  intensely focused on his captive. If Boone actually read, then that was a weakness to  be exploited , something to hone in on and take advantage of. “You don’t seem concerned.” He’d watch.

Boone remained casual in posture and flipped another page. “Yeah.”

“Only fools become complacent with those they capture. It’s why we kill the adults who won’t fight for us and keep the children. They’re malleable.”

That single heel had far too much weight pressed into it. It crushed against Vulpes’ sternum.  It left him to suck in gasps of fresh pain, though he remained unwilling to give Boone the satisfaction of being loud .

Boone maintained the pressure, biting heel against bared flesh, for several page flips.

By the time Boone eased up, Vulpes had finally gotten used to the  oddly sharp rubber against his body. He smirked. 

Every minute or so, Boone began to work at the upper right corner of the right page, ready to turn it  physically , but not quite there  visually . Within the minute, he’d turn the page. Another minute or so later, that finger picked right back up and prepared to turn the page.

Vulpes watched for 45 page turns. He wanted to kill Boone. It wasn’t that Boone read at a slow pace, it was that they  simply read. No questions. No comments. The face didn’t even make any interesting expressions. Boone gave him  absolutely nothing to work with.

Worse still, every time Vulpes attempted to let his mind wander, Boone’s heel dug down until he looked back over and watched .

There was nothing to watch.

There was nothing to think.

He  internally attempted to run through escape plans, layouts of mountains he might be on, how to find the knowledge that would get him cleared by Caesar; he tried to think about anything but he couldn’t get a single thought to weave together  coherently , it all wound up in tangled jumbles of sensations and words and syllables that attempted to be a thought but ended up muddled instead .

The hand turned the page halfway. It stilled. 

Vulpes inhaled, widened his eyes to not miss it. 

The page fell. Boone nodded. His lips curled and out came, “Dubious.”

What did mean? Of course, he knew what it meant, something doubtful, uncertain, questionable, suspicious. Of  _ course _ he knew what it meant! But why would Boone go through such a stretch of silence only to say one word? Did he find something Vulpes had done that was dubious? Was it only a coincidence that he read a single word aloud, even though he’d not read a single other aloud? 

Boone nodded again, dog-eared the page, and continued on with his reading.

There were 34 more page turns.  Unmarked by anything but the constant rise of a hand in exactly the same way, followed by the same speed of page descent . Boone’s face remained the same. Everything was the same.

There was nothing good about this.  He attempted to clear his thoughts, pull together some important ideas about what to do to Boone, how to escape Boone, but nothing came .

Another page turn. Vulpes swallowed  loudly .

“Are you thirsty?”

Vulpes scrambled through his options, attempted to pull himself together enough to make the correct choice .  If yes, it would be something unfortunate like another ‘bath’ and  potentially that burning soap on his body . If no, he would not get a drink and he would remain without water for  however long.

The heel dug down, the opposite of a subtle warning.

“Yes.” He did not hold his breath; he only didn’t exhale right then.

Boone nodded, lifted his feet off Vulpes with a sigh, and moved to go back to the stairs.  Those boots were heavy again and they made thick sole slaps against the unfinished basement floor .

If he were Boone-- and he thanked Caesar he wasn’t-- he’d come back with water and drink it in front of the captive. He’d sip it  slowly , but ensure that he seemed to enjoy every refreshing drop. He wouldn’t make a production out of it, that served none, but he’d  certainly take his time to appreciate the water. Then, when the captive seemed like they’d be ready to beg, he’d finish the last of the water and walk away.

He didn’t hear the NCR man until Boone cleared his throat. Vulpes startled, unable to stop himself, and did his best to recompose himself a moment later. “Yes?”

“Here.”  Boone crouched beside him, held him up a bit behind the shoulders and assisted with pouring the water into Vulpes’ half-open mouth .

A bit dribbled down the sides, snaked a trail from cracked corners of Vulpes’ lips to his chin and along the curve of his neck . 

Boone pulled the bottle away, sat back into the chair, and settled back down with his feet over Vulpes’ chest.

He blinked at the ceiling for a few moments, attempted to sort through what had  been done . 

Boone switched up turning a page for taking a sip of the water as well. It didn’t have the same somewhat dirty appearance as the bathtub water had; this water  was purified water.

Vulpes would have made a captive beg for water, then he would have given them dirty water. He’d make them grateful for even that little bit of water, no matter how poor in quality it was. 

Boone turned the page. Boone turned 25 more pages, at the exact same rate, at the exact same-- Boone _laughed_. Boone shook his head, a twist of a smile over his thin lips. By the next page turn, he’d settled down into normalcy. 

What had Boone laughed at? Did it  truly take that long into the stupid book for something amusing to happen? How many pages was that?  At the very least 120, but he hadn’t started counting until he realized that Boone  truly was reading and not  just attempting to use the book as a prop . 

Vulpes almost wished he had read the book if only to know exactly what made Boone laugh. Even an idea would be enough. What made a man like that laugh? 

Who had given him that book again? Karl? Where was he?  Right, with those drugged up savages to get them amenable to Legion before their own assimilation or destruction . He hadn’t received a report from Karl in a while. He’d check in when he got Boone sorted out. He’d ensure the Khans wouldn’t pose a problem.

Boone arched his brow.

Vulpes watched. Waited.

Boone lowered the brow.

This was a mind game, wasn’t it? It wasn’t quite the one he would  employ , but he could see that it was one. Boone wanted him on edge, didn’t he?

Well, Vulpes was no fool. He wouldn’t pay attention. Pain could be ignored eventually, so even if his errant thoughts got that heel into his chest further, he would take it over this mental torment.

Boone’s heels dug down, but Vulpes would ignore it. Boone didn’t plan to do anything important anyway. This was all nonsense.

Pain, pain, yes he could focus on pain in another way. He’d document everything Boone did, write it on a long scroll in flowing ink. He’d read it off to Boone, tell him every sin he’d committed.  There would be no absolution, there would only be the continuation of the law of the talion, and it exacted much higher prices for those who struck above their social status . 

He’d start by keeping Boone locked away in a dark area. There would be a keyhole and a bright light on the other side of it.  Boone would  be left unblindfolded, but also unable to see the light as anything but what brought his tormenter, his master . Vulpes.

What light and dark meant would shift for Boone until Boone craved the darkness.  Eventually though, when his mind  was broken enough-- further even than after the murder of his pregnant woman-- Boone would revert back to finding comfort in the light . He’d bend to Vulpes, he’d find comfort in his praise and cower at his displeasure. Boone would break.

When Vulpes was certain Boone was no longer useful, no longer fun to have around, he would kill them.

Boone shut the book. He stood tall over Vulpes and glanced down with an indecipherable plain expression. “Are you hungry?”

Here came the trick. Of course he was hungry, it had been at least a day. But if he said it, expected a bit of food when he’d  been rewarded with water before, would it  be tainted ? Would it come? Would Boone eat in front of him?

Vulpes nodded, then added, “Yes.”

Boone nodded back and headed towards the stairs, book tucked under his arm.

Boone would get complacent if he thought Vulpes had  been tamed . Boone would become soft.  Boone had not  been trained to stay alert at all times when torturing the enemy, as Boone came from a backward place where they were bound to vestigial laws about torture .

Boone could play at knowing what he was doing, but he was as weak and bound to rules as Lieutenant Boyd, or at least he was  internally . He wouldn’t know how to go all the way, to gather anything more important than a few simple sentences from Vulpes.

The information Vulpes would gather from Boone would far outweigh anything Boone could hope to achieve .

Boone returned. Boone helped him eat the greasy meat and single sliced mutfruit without the use of his hands. Then Boone checked his shackles and chains, turned off the light, and left.

Vulpes did not sleep well, but he did manage. Legion training taught him to sleep even under the harshest conditions.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boone beats Vulpes.

 

He woke up on his side on the floor, hands bound in front of him with a spacer bar between the shackles and a chain that connected that bar to the one that spread his legs.

Boone liked to switch up the bondage, apparently.

A low smile spread over his features and he stretched as far as his bonds would allow. Not much, but he got a pleasant pop in his shoulders. He was still young, but sleeping on the floor didn’t do anyone good.

A quick glance around the room said morning, perhaps early afternoon. It said Boone had been there, as there was another book on the chair. He could only see a splash of familiar color, right up until he sat up a bit and realized just what it was.

 _Las Vegas Bird Watcher’s Guide._ It looked like the one he’d left back in his tent at the Fort. He knew by the colors, by the little dove that looked up with such wide eyes on the cover.

Vulpes scooted closer, lifted to his knees in order to flip through it. It was the same edition, but not the same book. His had a little inscription from Cecil, auribus teneo vulpes. This had no inscription and that was the only thing that allowed his heart to beat more regularly.

This was a coincidence. Of course a book about Las Vegas birds would be more frequently found in the ruins of the city and its outskirts. Of course it had survived, just like so many other books.

Boone had it because he was the type who could just sit still for hours looking through binoculars at birds. He was even the type who probably enjoyed it.

That had no appeal to Vulpes. He preferred to take a more direct route in things; he watched, he listened, he gathered information, and then he struck in devastating ways. He didn’t sit and look at birds through binoculars, in hopes that something happened.

The book had its uses though. Knowing what birds might still exist, and where they tended to gather, it told him from a distance if people were in an area, if there was a certain type of food available there, and many more useful things.

Vulpes stood.

Boone flicked his lighter and stood from his spot in the corner of the room; he lit a cigarette a cherry bomb red, then stepped closer. Those boots stomped, but the cigarette remained fixed firmly between those lips. “Do you like birds?” Somehow the cigarette didn’t move much, even with words around it.

Not lately. But he nodded, determined to lead Boone with affirmatives and good behavior. “They provide useful information.”

“That’s why I like them.”

Good. Let the NCR man himself find common ground. Then Vulpes could ingratiate himself and get them relaxed.

Boone arched a brow. He stepped closer, until Vulpes felt the smoke come out thick in a cloud in front of him.

He stepped back, but Boone caught him by the wrist spreader bar and tugged him forward and forced Vulpes down. “Don’t stand unless I tell you.”

Ah. Fair enough. He kept his head down, even as his mind came up with any number of ways he would destroy Boone. Perhaps he’d crucify him when it was all said and done and he’d enjoyed Boone how he liked? Maybe he’d even crucify all of Boone’s little ‘friends’ as well, let them die first.

He’d release dozens of ravens, perhaps hundreds. He’d let them scavenge and predate by equal measures on the desiccated bodies of Boone's friends whose bodies struggled to cling to life while they begged for death.

Then he would allow Boone to die.

Vulpes smiled.

Boone stepped behind him, pushed him down onto hands and knees. “You’re smaller than I thought you’d be.”

Vulpes did not smile.

“Those posters make you out to be Lanius’ size.”

He didn’t have to take-- Vulpes swallowed down his rage. He smiled tightly. “Size isn’t everything.”

“That’s what they said back then too. And then they made a bunch of statues to show it.”

Vulpes sneered. Boone couldn’t see his face, though a part of him wished Boone could. “Performance is what matters.” Hand on Vulpes’ shoulders, he wanted to reach up to grab it and bring Boone down. But not yet. Give lip service, then twist and destroy. He’d done it dozens of times with tribes that were beneath him, he could certainly do it with one man.

“Do you like to perform?” Boone’s hands pushed him down, made his face touch the cold floor.

“When necessary.” He certainly got those skills improved when he had to deal with Lucius and Lanius and any number of those who were technically above him, right on up until he reached Caesar and accepted and respected their leadership. He didn’t have to be forced to admire a man who had built so much with only a foundation that the meek Followers could provide.

“Good.” Boone pulled away.

In an odd form of prone, he didn’t like how exposed his body was.

The muffled tink of a metal belt buckle moving and leather being pulled from loops offered no comfort.

He half expected a zipper to fall, but instead, the leather--doubled up for added force-- rained down across his back and bottom.

How long since he’d been in a position to take a beating? Who had done it? Normally thoughts were simple to pull up, like they were papers in a cabinet he’d arranged. He could recall any number of things without effort, and it served him well.

Here, it was like Boone had tossed the cabinet around, scattered all the folders and their files to the floor, and then lit some on fire.

He shifted forward. Immediately he understood his mistake.

Boone caught him by the shoulder once more, managed to push him flush to the floor again, and then the blows came down in brutal snaps.

Leather cracked down over skin, brought bloated welts to the surface. Vulpes panted even as he tried to control his breathing. The belt struck him, sometimes quick, sometimes not; sometimes it hit over the same area it had just struck, sometimes not. It was random, he didn’t know when it would happen, and he couldn’t tense and make it stop. That only made the hits harder, in his experience. He’d learned as much as a child.

A child.

Above the pain pulled the fury, the frustration, the confusion. How many times when he was a boy had he taken a beating with his brothers for the selfish acts of one? How many times had he lay there, prone and accepting even as he knew he had done nothing wrong? It built camaraderie and focus in some, and rage in others.

But here, he couldn’t blame the beating on another. Here, it was his own doing and that had never happened-- no.

It was Boone’s doing. It was Boone’s fault.

As soon as it began, it ended.

Vulpes lay still, he controlled his breathing more regularly, and he waited.

Boone put the belt back in place with that familiar noise of leather rustled against fabric. The buckle clanged lightly against itself. Then it was done.

Was this what slaves felt like?

No. It didn’t matter. They weren’t him. They broke easily and he would not. He would not break at all. Boone would.

Vulpes merely hadn’t done as thorough of a job as he should have when he’d nudged Jeannie May into helping him capture Carla. If he had done his job as well as he expected of those beneath him, Boone wouldn’t be an issue.

If anything, he was too kind, allowing Boone to live after his crimes. He’d convinced himself at the time to not allow his feelings to get in the way of doing what actually needed to be done, but he’d been wrong. It wasn’t his feelings that got in the way, it was a desire for following the law properly. Eye for an eye, when he should have killed Boone and been done with it.

Boone moved to the light, pulled the dangling cord of metal balls, then lifted the book from the chair and sat down. Of course, he lifted his feet and put them over Vulpes’ back.

Of course, Vulpes thought of any number of ways to retaliate but he kept them to himself. He acted on none.

Boone did not speak.

Vulpes wanted to. He wanted to pluck idle thoughts from the monosyllabic brute. Anything he might say though, it dried up when he opened his mouth to speak. He was not afraid of another beating. He could take many beatings, he had proven that as a child grown into a man. Even if he were afraid, it was better to be beaten than not gather information.

Decided, he asked, “Where did you find that book?”

“Someone bought it for me.”

“Oh? Was he with you at the time, or did he presume your taste?”

“I asked for it.”

Damn Boone. No gender, no note on when, no note on where. It likely wasn’t pertinent information to his escape, but it was enough for him to potentially pull Boone into security. Ah! “Where did they find it at? I keep my eyes out for useful books like that.”

“A store. And you won’t have to worry about that.”

So brief, yet so grim. He’d never met someone quite that form of laconic. He couldn’t understand people who spoke only in brief sentences.

Boone probably thought in terse bubbles that popped and made words came out, like in those awful comics some Legion men occasionally got ahold of while scouting. Even if Boone enjoyed looking at the pictures of a wildlife book; even if he imagined he had thought out a brilliant plan to punish Vulpes; even if Boone had actually caught an inebriated and undercover Vulpes, Boone was still a fool. A savage profligate who could only do the world a service by being taken out of it.

The feet did not cross, did not apply so much pointed pain to his back. It didn’t mean he didn’t hurt. It only meant he didn’t have that harsher pain to concern himself with on top of the slick welts Boone had raised over his skin.

The last beating he’d taken outside of combat had been delivered by his centurion, the name of which was a nothing note in history. He hadn’t forgotten but he refused to remember. It was the same one who called for him to be lashed to a cross, picked at by birds and taunted by all those he had felt a bond with.

Vulpes had been crucified. Strung up there, half-nude, with only a cloth to cover his privates. With only a stretch of material to lend him some modesty in the face of such a deep humiliation.

True, he had not been _successfully_ crucified, as Caesar had stepped in on Vulpes’ behalf, but it had been done. The humiliation had taken its toll.

He’d not been anywhere nearby when the centurion had died. Poor man, he had a heart attack.

Lucius had suggested he had something to do with it. Vulpes had eyewitnesses to remind Lucius and Caesar both that he was miles and miles away, merely doing his job.

He smiled.

Boone spoke, tugged Vulpes free from thought, “Do you need to use the can?”

Such euphemistic turns of phrase irritated but at least Boone hadn’t used something more vulgar. “I should.”

“Do you need to?”

Half answers didn’t serve either, it seemed. That was a shame, Vulpes was so much better at delivering those. “I need to.”

Boone stood and moved over to the stairs. “Stay down.”

Like Antony’s commands. Next, Boone would ask him to roll over. Lay back.

Vulpes kept his face lowered and didn’t look up until he heard that characteristic creak, followed by the door shutting.

He wanted to stand up, push the table aside, crawl out that window, and run into the mountains where there would be a cave or crevice he could hide within. He was high enough up, running down would be what Boone would expect, but going higher would give him ground to survey from, to determine exactly where he was and how to most efficiently leave.

When Boone returned, he had a bucket.

Well. Alright then.

Boone sat back down in the chair and did not put his feet up on Vulpes’ back this time. He seemed to not pay attention to him at all.

Vulpes would not use the bucket, most especially not when Boone was around. He’d sooner rot from the inside. There were some things that pride did not lay down for.

Boone turned a page as he asked, “What bird's your favorite?”

“Raven.” He didn’t think and he regretted how quickly he answered. But it was true, it was nothing Boone could rightfully choke him over. He admired their nature; he could appreciate that they were beautiful in their black plumage, haunting in their calls, clever in what they could do, and able to predate or scavenge on even the largest animals if there were enough of them. Though his own experience on the pole said he should loathe them, he didn’t blame them for their nature. Even their most recent taunts of him, he could forgive that. They merely were.

Boone remained silent.

He shifted from his position enough to look up a bit at Boone, to see that familiar hand at the corner of the page. The book was far larger than the other one, so the timing of the page turn was extended. This was a relief, actually, as it meant he didn’t have a fairly regular thing to set the time of the basement to. It meant he could think between pages, without such a heavy pace to the turns.

Several turns in, he felt secure to ask, “What’s your favorite?”

“Inca dove.”

Vulpes laughed. He felt rather thirsty. He wanted very much to be left alone in the room for a while, to sort things through. “The Inca were a massive group you know.”

“Yeah, it says that in the book.”

“But their conquest was assured. They didn’t stand a chance against the military might they faced and their savage ways were destroyed.”

“I heard it was disease that did them in.”

Boone had researched it then. Well, color him a mixture of surprised and not. Things were starting to settle into place and it didn’t paint a picture Vulpes liked. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Boone didn’t back the fact up, he simply lifted his legs up over Vulpes once more and hunkered down into the chair.

What an ugly chair for an ugly man. Vulpes remained in position though, despite his inferno of hatred.

He thought, very careful thoughts, about Boone and all the evidence before him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burial.

 

Vulpes did not hear footsteps above him. He had  occasionally for hours but that had ceased over an hour before.

Though exhausted and sore, he could enact his escape. He lifted from the floor and settled himself as  comfortably as he could against the cushion. Boone was a fool to find it comfortable; it was stiff and firm and far too ugly. Regardless, the upholstery that pulled from the wooden base gave him a tool.

He pried a thick, yet bendable, staple free from the wood. He pulled several free,  just to ensure he had what he needed and he also got to ruin something Boone liked.

Satisfied he had enough, he put one very  carefully in his mouth and worked it as well as he could, given the limits. He hadn’t needed to do quite this before but he was certain he could.

With one in the approximate shape necessary, he leaned in and clutched the metal between teeth so he could tinker with the keyhole and work his escape .

Sweat dripped from his brow, stung at his eyes, and he couldn’t see much in the darkness. So he hobble-walked over to the moonlit window and attempted to rework the shackles.

The sound when a lock caught, then released, that was a gift from the heavens bestowed upon him. His right cuff opened and he  hastily used his dominant hand to work the left one free. The metal staple snapped.

He almost panicked.  Almost was not the same as did, so he grabbed another staple from the left hand, bent it into shape much more  readily , and shook the snapped bits free of his left cuff . It worked, it gave him space to attempt a second try at the lock.

Metal crashed to the floor.  He hadn’t even heard the lock go and there it went, both metal shackles, the spreader bar, and the rattling chains he’d been so careful about .

Vulpes held still.

Silence, as there had been for long enough it was silly to worry.

He hadn’t become head of the frumentarii by being easily assured. Still, if he had been caught, it was better to attempt a full escape than wait for punishment. He’d learned that lesson; he’d also learned not to lie to Boone if he didn’t want to choke on lye, or simply be choked.

Hands he forced into submission worked at his ankles. One, then the other, released. Before they could clatter and sound his escape, he grabbed them by the central bar and held it.  For a tense moment, it threatened to tip one way and tap against the floor, but he caught it in both hands and  carefully moved it beside the other pair of cuffs .

Free, but not quite, he rubbed at his limbs for long enough to ease out a bit of the soreness, then stepped in silence and darkness to the steps .

He didn’t usually need to sneak like this.  His duties included being charming, being able to extract information from anyone, and being able to plan things the enemy wouldn’t expect . How long since he’d been in the lower ranks of the frumentarii and made to stalk about in silence? 

It didn’t matter. He couldn’t get out through the window, Boone had nailed that shut days before. It left only the door.

He still had several staples, he could manage.  Tools in hand, he strode to the steps on barefoot and spread his stance so he could step along the most supported parts of the stairs and make the least amount of noise . Of course, he prepared himself to skip the 7th step.

Boone had never hit the third stair. He knew it the moment his feet touched the dilapidated wood and it groaned and bowed. He couldn’t see it in the darkness, but he felt it with his foot. He heard it with his ears, loud and clear.  Boone had never hit the third step, he knew, because Vulpes’ ears would have alerted him to it even in his slumber, even if the seventh (eighth ?) step  was skipped on a more quiet descent.

Nothing happened. Moments passed, strewn into minutes, and he remained alone. 

Vulpes leaned forward, groped at slivers of wood and old nails. He searched for the truth that Boone had concealed from him. The next step was safe, so he stepped up. The next was safe, so he continued. On and up until the seventh and eighth step he was able to go moderately quickly. Neither one proved to squeak, not even quietly when he searched with hands for a weakness, a bend to the wood that would betray him to Boone. 

He stepped onto seven, tentative. Nothing. Eight was the same.

Boone couldn’t fake a noise, could he? No. No, that was foolish. Boone couldn’t do that.

He reached out, fumbled for the ninth step, and found it sunk with the barest of pressure and threatened to alert Boone .

Boone had planned this. But no, Boone  merely had a few clever tricks. Vulpes had used such tricks before, it wasn’t all that uncommon, he  merely hadn’t expected it of a mongrel like Boone.

He finally arrived at the door, 14 steps up, with 3 and 9 as the guilty steps, not the 7 Boone always made it out to be.

Deft hands worked the lock on the knob. Pins shifted and slid into place. He did it. He did it and he was free.

Not quite. One step closer, he toed into the room. Darkness coated everything, but an open window in the corner beckoned him forward. With even steps and silent breaths, he crept towards the window. Likely open so Boone wouldn’t feel so stifled in the daytime heat, it seemed Boone had left it that way before bed.

He didn’t look at the room, he moved towards freedom. Actual freedom, as soon as he swung his legs over and  silently slipped away into the night. He didn’t have to capture Boone that night, he would come back. He would take them and he would make them wish they’d killed themselves the night they’d killed that woman.

Something held before the window, a lumpy sack. He glanced down as he lifted his bruised legs to the window sill. A familiar shape, a familiar face.

Magic Bird brand seed, with a dove’s big face and tilted head right there on the upper right of the package. He had the aged product exported in from West and it was expensive but worth it for his purposes.  He used it to coax the doves, as he found they made their calls to his captives best that way; they served as mournful cries to the victims, happy cries to the doves and Vulpes . At least, they’d been pleasant sounds as far as Vulpes had ever  been concerned . Now was a different story. 

Now. Vulpes blinked. 

A light switch turned on. Boone smiled.

Vulpes hurled himself out the window, ignored the torn skin on his elbows and knees, and darted towards the main path . 

He heard Boone this time. He heard Boone, he heard that voice call out, “I’ve got you in my sights.”

Good. Kill him. 

A bullet didn’t strike. 

Vulpes plucked the dart from his neck, tossed it down, and kept on running. The dog could chase him all he wanted, he would not  be caught .

Even if, a minute in, he felt woozier from the dart than he did from burning at his muscles after so long not using them. Even if, he felt like he was running less and  simply falling forward with kicks of his legs. Even if… his brain… not working.

\---~~~---

He felt heat. Not fire, not a burn, but heat. He blinked his eyes open and looked up. 

The sun stood high above, warm and already into the early afternoon.

Maybe he did have a new burn to match all the ones Boone had made. His skin  certainly looked pink enough on a quick glance. Parts of him that had never seen the sunshine felt it and he would have preferred they never had.

“You’re awake.” It was a statement spit out on the upswing of a shovel. Dirt flew in an arc over Boone’s shoulder.

“What did you drug me with?”

“Same thing as in Gomorrah.”

That explained it then. He hadn’t been at fault for it, those scummy men in the bar at Gomorrah had been the cause. Or,  perhaps , the whore that had sat upon his lap and begged him for caps. Someone else had drugged him and alcohol wasn’t the root. He would have  been drugged either way, with no more time to react than he had time to react to the dart.

“What are you doing?”

“Digging.”

This wasn’t a time to garden. But that stack of dirt didn’t say Boone wanted to plant things. It said Boone wanted to bury something. Deep, if the three feet of dirt meant anything.

Boone continued to dig.

Vulpes felt that sting of fear layer over the burning warmth along his pink skin. He didn’t shiver, he didn’t allow Boone that satisfaction. “You enjoy gardening?”

Boone pulled up another pile of dirt and swung it away into the threatening pile. “I do. Carla wanted a garden. I promised to give her one.”

He had no food in his stomach to toss up but he felt the inclination anyway. He buried that down. “It’s difficult to garden around here.”

“It is.”

There wasn’t the same simple tone as usual, this one was something different, but Vulpes couldn’t finger it.

“What’s your favorite plant?” Boone caught at a rock with his shovel, huffed, and picked it up himself to toss away.

He didn’t answer.

“Answer.”

He would not answer. He would not answer.

“ Maybe that’s too many plants to think about.” Boone raised the shovel, then slammed it down on the spreader bar between Vulpes’ ankles.

Even if shackles didn’t shatter his legs, he felt like they did. Metal struck flesh, metal rattled flesh, metal hit bones beneath. Liquid pooled around his skin there, threatened to slick out and seep into the dirt.

He cried, but it wasn’t new. He’d cried before with Boone and Boone’s torture. As long as he didn’t talk, it was fine. It was normal. It was not fine.

For the second time, he would take a fast  cowardly death  gladly over a slow one. He would take  being killed after a bit of brutalization over  being buried alive.

Boone set the shovel down and reached into that box from before. “I have four types of seeds here. Maize, onion, peppers, and potatoes.”

It wasn’t a question, but he knew enough to know Boone wanted an answer. He blinked away the tears, focused through the pain. Answer the extended question, or remain silent and hope he ended Vulpes sooner. Choices, choices.

Pathetic. He’d call for crucifixion if he knew his men had thoughts like this. 

“Answer.”

“Potatoes.”

“I figured you’d say peppers. I know you like spicy foods. Does it remind you of your tribe?”

He’d said that once. Who had he said it to, back when he was a fool and talked to others? Agusto, off with the Fiends and giving them knowledge about how to best sow discord within the NCR. He hadn’t had contact with the man in a while. Rumors spread that the Fiends did something unsavory with him.  Perhaps .  Perhaps not.

“Answer.”

“Yes.” He blinked. He hadn’t meant to say that.  Too many connections  were made too  quickly in his brain and something disconnected and made him say it . He was better than this. He is better than this.

“I never had a tribe. I was born and bred in the NCR. I even brought some seeds from a store there. It’s easier to grow more things when it’s  just for you.”

“I’m… surprised the… soil works for it.” Even though he wanted the pain to fade, it didn’t listen. It pulled at his breaths, brought them out in heavy pants. In soft sobs.

“I bought the dirt too. It’s rich dirt. Good for plants.”

Vulpes Inculta is not a weak man. He is strong. He is clever. He is intelligent. He is charismatic. He can prevail. The NCR fears him.

“Water’s a bit of a pain to get, but I found a spot that has a well. If I need more, there are always ways to get it, if you know how. This spot’s worth it.”

“Why?” Why what he didn’t know. Why why why.

“Well, I’ve put so much effort into renovating the place, I figured I should stick around. It’s what she would have wanted.” He hopped down into the hole and continued to dig.

“A murderer husband?”

“She knew I was NCR. She still married me.” Shift, shift, shift, the dirt flew faster.

Just let him die. Don’t bury him alive. Not even Legion did that, or at least, not even he did. To  be crucified was one thing, but to be… He panted. “Did she know about Bitter Springs?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“Doesn’t it?”  Break his skull in, do something to kill him before he  was rolled into the hole and killed through asphyxiation and panic .

“No, it doesn’t. She’s dead.”

“And you killed her. Murdered her and your only child.” It would work. Even mentions of Carla got him beatings in the past. It would work.

Boone scoffed. “Because of you. You grabbed her. Even if you didn’t do it yourself.” The shovel slapped dirt out in violent rains above, no longer set to a single arc. 

“I did. I did far more than grab her.”

Silence, aside from Vulpes’ own pained pants. 

“What did you do?”

“She moaned. How long since you’d last taken her? She felt so tight, I could hardly keep from emptying inside. It wouldn’t affect the price after all; she was already used goods.”

Silence again. Then, shovel smacked against the dirt, tamped it down. “It won’t work.”

“She liked it when I folded her up. She was so tight, I could almost feel the kicks.” Just a single hit would be enough, he could just...

Boone crawled out of the hole. “I planned to kill you first. I planned to kill you like I killed them. I’d have a nice garden on top. I actually  _ like _ potatoes.”

Oh. Oh no.

“But not anymore.” Boone reached down and lifted his burned body up. “I  was done with vengeance. I had gotten what I wanted for what you did. I  was satisfied .”

No no no. 

“You’re _mine_. Eye for an eye, Vulpes.”

That had been what had started this, hadn’t it? What had made him focus so  keenly on Novac. His Cecil.

The irony of the situation was not lost on him, as he  was carried away back to the house, back to the basement. Back to his prison.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boone gives Vulpes a nice healing massage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The massage is obviously not consensual, but that hasn't stopped Boone with Vulpes, and it's never stopped Vulpes in his dealings with slaves and captives.

 

He slouched against the chair he’d been put in. He could smell that familiar bitterness of roasted xander root and he looked up towards the stairs. He could hear Boone's steps. Both the ninth and the third step creaked. Boone didn’t bother to skip any of the stairs, a silent acknowledgment that he had tricked Vulpes.

He wanted to laugh. It wasn’t particularly funny, but there was something in him that could appreciate he’d been tricked; he didn’t like that part, so he stifled it and stared into the darkness and towards Boone. Even with the dim light that hung on a chain above, it was difficult to see as far as the stairs, but he still looked. He still sought Boone’s form out.

Boone knelt. He set a bowl down in front of Vulpes, reached into it, and pulled out a crumbling handful of the healing powder Vulpes knew well. “This is what Legion’s allowed to use?”

“Yes.”

Boone rubbed it over where his ankles were covered by shackles, then rubbed it up further, reached along the gashes and bruises that speckled Vulpes’ body.

This wasn’t the correct behavior. He was supposed to be beaten. He was supposed to be killed, or tortured, or whatever else the bastard did in that awful methodical way. But he was not supposed to be tended to in an almost tender fashion.

Then again, he’d used that trick himself before. He broke in a ranger woman that way, as a side project during his infiltration into The Strip the first time. He’d kept her guessing; would he punish her, or praise her? Most things it was clear, but not always. That fear, that worry, that had been what had finally broken her into the picture of docility.

He remained still when the hands touched his flaccid length. Not just a cursory stroke to help heal it as well, but a full touch. That palm pressed flat, then fingers wrapped around it. Then it gripped him hard.

He didn’t move, even though somewhere in his mind he screamed. He stayed in position and watched Boone. If it was awful, at least it was something interesting. It was better than Boone using him like a footstool and reading. If he heard another page turn…

Boone met his eyes. Boone stroked along the length. His lips parted in almost a sensual way.

This was not correct. Vulpes shifted, attempted to pull back in the chair. But there was nowhere to go, there was only his back pressed to the chair back. “Release me.”

Boone smiled, almost a congenial one, were the situation different. “You’ll get a release.”

He tried to lift his legs.

Boone caught him by one knee and used enough pressure that both knees had to lower. “Don’t.”

He always found it pleasant taking his time with unruly slaves or captives. Sure, some Legion men found it frustrating and just shouted for meeknes--and more often than not those men ended up with dead slaves, not docile ones. He had a more steady hand, one that guided them towards what needed to be done. If he hadn’t gone the frumentarii route, he’d eventually hoped to become a centurion or a slave trainer. One had more prestige, but the other allowed so many possibilities.

Boone stroked him to hardness. “You like it.”

It was merely a physiological response. He could no more be blamed for it than a slave could be; though he often told the slaves they must enjoy what he did on some level, even if their minds told them they didn’t want it.

Vulpes did not want it. He did not like it. He would not have it.

But Boone gave it to him, made him take that hand.

He couldn’t help the unconscious little twitches and jerks, of length, of hips, of shoulders. He was sensitive and it had been too long.

Boone removed his hand and reached back into the healing powder. Orange inconsistently sized granules coated the curve of Boone’s palm and reached into the crevices between curled fingers. Boone reached up, dusted a bit onto Vulpes’ shoulders. “There’s a lot here. You should heal nicely.”

If he were Boone, and if he were particularly motivated to punish someone for what they’d done, he might do something like this as well. Lure them into feeling secure, into feeling safe, then strike. Or, as was more likely and as was closer to reality, make them feel that rising tension with every gentle movement and every soft word. Then strike. By the time the strike happened, the other would be thankful for it, if only to end the tension.

Boone stood up and moved behind the chair. “Lean forward.”

Simple resistance wouldn’t do anything, would it? But that’s what he had liked his slaves thinking. That’s what told him he’d done his job properly. So he didn’t curl inwards, he remained up against the back of the chair. Boone could make him, but not with only words; no longer would he pretend on meek to bide his time for an escape.

Boone sighed, warm against his ear. “Fine.” Hands caught at Vulpes’ shoulders, pushed him in over himself. “Your back’s pretty bruised.”

 _Who_ could have foreseen that almost daily belt beatings might lead to a bruised back? Surely not Vulpes.

The almost daily part was the problem, wasn’t it? Boone had an odd sort of consistent. Vulpes didn’t know if what he’d say or what he’d do would get nothing, a single smack, or a full on attack. He ended up having to weigh even the smallest remarks for if he could possibly gain something from them, even if it was only satisfaction in his superiority despite circumstances.

Boone manually brought Vulpes into an upright position, as though simply maneuvering a doll.

Vulpes considered the situation. This was Boone creating a blank slate with his captive. Vulpes’ himself employed that tactic more than once. Give them momentary satisfaction, allow their body to heal, then return to punish them later. Start the whole process over again. Make them aware there was no sanctity of self, nothing that could be done to prevent the pain, except behave. Even then, they weren't fully safe.

Boone reached down once more, with fingers that grazed along a smooth chest. One hand caught up the half-hard length while the other worked at the sacs beneath. Neither hand hurt him; both hands pleasantly tingled with remnants of the healing powder worked into the sensitive skin.

“It won’t work.” Vulpes remained still, unable to resist much physically, but not about to hold his tongue.

Boone didn’t ask, he didn’t answer. Boone pushed the foreskin back, then rubbed a thumb over the end and pulled up a sticky strand and wiped it down along Vulpes’ length. He leaned in and pressed his cheek up against Vulpes’.

This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was Vulpes Inculta. All of those blessed with that name before him had died in combat, or on missions. This was different. This wasn’t allowed. This was not right.

Fingers that groped his sacs reached down and stroked at his bottom, pressed around his entrance.

Thinking like that did him no good. If he gave up so readily, he deserved to die. He refused. Perhaps waking up near an open grave had cowed him, but Boone would die, and no one else had to know of his shame.

Breath caught in a choked cry in his throat. He turned his head, broke contact with Boone’s cheeks.

Boone pressed their cheeks together once more and tugged harder, pulled with languid but firm strokes. Fingers, one at first, but then two, slid into Vulpes.

“Stop.” Internally, he mocked himself. How many times had he heard ‘stop’ and continued? It almost didn’t bear thinking about. It definitely didn’t bear thinking about. He was not some lowly debased whore. He wasn’t a slave.

Boone’s fingers felt nice though, orange powder eased into any potential tears and left his entrance feeling… pleasant.

He began to jerk, to pull and rock and push away.

Strong hands kept him pinned to the lower body, while upper arms and forearms pinned him along his shoulders, chest, and stomach. “Stop.” A third and fourth finger threatened to push within, which would not feel good, powder present or not.

Vulpes wanted to continue, he wanted to struggle. Vulpes stopped.

Slaves stopped when masters bid it; masters did not stop unless they wanted to. Every Legion man and woman knew that or they learned it fast.

It was not a flattering comparison.

Boone breathed against his neck, “Good boy.”

He stared at the darkened window, sucked in harsh pants and exhaled them with force, and did his best to stay still and not take part in the depravity going on below. What his lower body did was not his. It didn’t matter.

His mouth hung open and he couldn’t find the presence of mind to shut it. Those hands pushed and pulled and did too many things to him and he just wanted it to end.

Boone removed his hands. He stood up and moved back around to the front of the chair. He lifted some powder up and moved to apply it along Vulpes’ chest that was blackened with bruises and blemished with circular burns.

Even with healing powder, the burns would scar. Already, they puckered and whitened and rose up in angry bumps against the skin, indications that Vulpes’ had been left alone to heal with them for too long.

He’d be asked where he got the burns, should he bathe with any of the others. Scars were storytime. A profligate gave this to me as I slaughtered the rest of his companions but I put him down easily with my machete. A deathclaw slashed across my chest to create these gouges but I slew him like Caesar shall slay the profligates. A whore woman in their ranks thought to shoot me through the shoulder, so I sliced her arm off and sent it to her commanding officer as a gift.

I was captured by a pathetic sack of a man who held delusions of vengeance and I burned every time he lit up one of his repulsive smokesticks.

That wouldn’t work. He’d have to go deeper. Perhaps he’d have to scar himself, make things look like he’d been wounded in another way, perhaps peppered with bullets. He’d known at least one Legion man who, without a doubt, had lied about how they got their scars, but the lie had been convincing to all but Vulpes. He would pull that off as well.

The problem was the scars weren’t in the same place. They worked from neck to shoulders, down the arms, along the chest, along the inner thighs and hips. He wouldn’t be able to hide some. Not even long sleeved shirts and longer uniforms would work. Everyone would know.

I took down a nest of nightstalkers, but my last dose of antivenom was used by the time the final one struck me. Woozy, I managed to fight it off and toss its body with the others, but not before my body reacted strongly. Despite how many have died to the poisons they make, I survived. I walked all the way down a mountain as poison bubbled and brewed within me, and I worked it out of my system through my pores. Though I’m scarred, I’m not dead like those dozens of abominations.

Boone stroked his cock again, with orange coated hands that made it tingle and jump in satisfaction.

He’d have made the slave suck him off by then, insisted that he’d made them feel so good, they owed it to him to do the same. He’d have caught them by the hair and ridden them slowly at first, not choking or gagging them more than his length naturally would. But then he’d force himself, deeper, harder, but not faster--he wasn't a rutting dog-- then he'd let them gag, let them cry and roll wet salty tears down their dirty cheeks.

Boone pushed fingers in once more. Three, then four. The powder wasn’t a liquid, but it worked into the skin so smoothly it made entrance easier.

He’d done that once. To the Ranger even. Orange powder on his cock, he’d used her ass and made her feel like it was a reward, especially in a contrast to how he’d torn her without any preparation the day before. He’d suffered through the friction on his cock that first time just to make a point, but the second time he enjoyed a nice smooth entrance and both of them felt better by the end of it.

Fingers curled--one, two, three, four--as though they sought it out. They found it.

Vulpes jerked forward, not against the motions, but into them. He jangled his shackles and tried to steady himself.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes.” No no no it was a mistake but he couldn’t take it back.

He’d made her enjoy it too. Carla there, moaning and squirming under him and attempting to call out to her pathetic man through the gag. By the finish, she’d rolled her body to his. She’d taken what he’d given and accepted him fully into her body.

Boone brought him to climax. Boone rubbed the come into Vulpes’ chest, along the contours of his shoulders and back down to the shaking belly.

He smirked. Boone didn’t have to know whose face he saw when he came. At least, not yet. Another time. He'd make Boone beg for release, then tell him how she'd come for him too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vulpes gets to read.

 

He woke up. This was not unusual, even if it was not guaranteed.

Even the moon didn’t come out to light his room and all he could rely on was his hearing. The steps were Boone’s, loud and meant to wake him, even if they sounded a bit more blunt than usual. They struck each step, even the ones Boone originally hid from him.

It reminded him of being blindfolded again, listening to the sounds about him and trying to determine what he’d gotten involved in. Here at least he knew somewhat. He was in a basement. He had all his limbs shackled and chained and stretched apart. He’d been there for… a longer stretch of time than he had originally intended. He’d not seen Boone for several hours, so he’d finally gotten some sleep.

There were other important things but no time to think about it when Boone was so near.

The light switched on and Boone held a thick tome in hand. It looked to be an encyclopedia with a worn leather binding. Boone’s hand covered the spine that revealed what letters it contained as beginnings, but that was fine. He’d find out.

Boone sat, like he always did.

Boone lifted his feet onto Vulpes, like he always did.

Boone read, like he always did.

For the first ten or so minutes, he waited for that hand to finally swipe the page to the left and pick up the next one in preparation. But it took longer, he was fairly certain. Boone just kept reading and re-reading something, a stern look on his face.

“What is it?” He didn’t want to ask, but he was too tired to work the filter properly, it seemed. Boone had kept him awake with incessant but randomized noises for the last two days. Finally, it had stopped. And now this, of course this.

“Did you know Roman soldiers drank wine?”

Well, that simply wasn’t true. “You must be reading it wrong. Or it’s false.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Every Legion man knows that wine and all other alcoholic drinks lead to moral decay, to dissolution.”

“You were drinking wine.”

Oh, now that. He’d made amends with that. “You drugged me.”

“But you were drinking.”

“I was _undercover._ ”

Boone shifted his feet on Vulpes’ chest. They were soft feet.

Wait, that wasn’t right. He glanced, aware of an absence of pain suddenly. “No boots today?”

“I didn’t feel like putting them on.” He wriggled his toes. One foot shifted and patted a few times against Vulpes' right cheek.

“Legion doesn’t allow wine, and neither did Romans. Caesar has shown me the books that show how mighty Rome was.” He did not turn his head, but he thought about it at length. There were places feet didn't belong. 

“Were there redacted parts?”

He blinked. Well. Of course, it wasn’t a good idea to allow all parts to be seen by those who didn’t need to know. Though. He’d not looked into it further, he’d been convinced in the accuracy by Caesar.

Better to not answer than to lie, he’d learned as much.

“Did he hide bits?”

Vulpes knew he was one bit away from getting that one dangerous word, ‘answer’ and being made to do so immediately. Still, he held on. He wasn’t about to give more information.

“Legion redacted a lot of things NCR reclaimed from them. Most things.” Boone said it for Vulpes.

He knew this game. Get the captive to think at length, in their free time, about the things you said aloud to make them consider whose side they really wanted to be on. This was right out of his own book and he didn’t have to stand for it. Not that he even could.

“Slaves were allowed to drink too. And women. Everyone was.”

“That’s a lie. That’s an absolute lie. Why would a grand civilization allow alcohol to permeate and rot it? If they did allow it, it’s certainly what lead to its downfall.”

He expected a kick, several, when Boone pulled those feet away. He didn’t tense, he relaxed and waited.

Boone nudged at his ribs a little with the right big toe. “Get up and on my lap.”

Ah. A more personal beating then. Fine. He’d spoken his truth and he would take what came. Vulpes rolled onto his side with a careful amount of effort and then onto his hands and knees, before he pushed himself up and draped himself over Boone’s waiting lap. The armrests made the position awkward, but possible. This was not the sort of chair for an over the knee spanking but at least it wasn’t over the table like sometimes.

Boone set the book on the armrest, pages down, then assisted Vulpes upright, so he sat between Boone’s legs. A moment later, Boone lowered the book over both of them and leaned in, breath hot at Vulpes’ neck. “See?”

A finger pointed but Vulpes still had to lean in to focus on the words. Closer, his vision allowed him to read. Closer, he read lies. It had to be. “How could wine make anyone more ‘democratic’? Rome wasn’t even a democratic society!”

“Mmm. I read that meant something else.” Boone pointed again.

Sure enough.

No. It hardly mattered though. History hid things, history shifted. History went to the victors, Caesar said it. And Caesar said they didn’t get wine, so they didn’t. Who cared what some men from eons before said?

Boone tightened his legs around Vulpes’ hips and positioned himself forward to see better. “I think Caesar’s been lying to you all.”

Well, that was an amateur mistake. Everyone knew you let the captives come to their own turncoat decisions, if you truly wanted to break them. He scoffed and shook his head, “It doesn’t matter.”

“You agree?”

Vulpes blinked. “I _didn’t_ say that.”

“You didn’t not.”

He felt his throat thicken with a need to swallow, his tongue dry with a need to drink, and between the two he could do nothing more than sit there.

Boone flipped the page. No, not one, several. Dozens. He either knew exactly where he was going, having thumbed through the book any number of times, or he wanted to flip pages until something caught his eye.

They ended up on a page about roses. Vulpes let his shoulders fall a bit, released tension he hadn’t realized was present. “Most of those species probably don’t even exist anymore.”

Boone nodded against his bared left shoulder. There was stubble Vulpes hadn’t felt before, likely because Boone hadn’t shaved yet. They were in that rare period of night, before the morning peeked in and greeted him hello. Right before the doves came to mock him with that taunting call.

Something behind him stirred and he wanted to not consider what that something was, but he knew immediately. Something bulged against the small of his back. Something threatened him.

He’d wondered if Boone would do something with him. If Boone would take those liberties like Vulpes already would have.

Boone kissed his throat.

Typical. Make the other enjoy soft kisses. Make the other want it. Boone only did the most obvious things and Vulpes wouldn’t fall prey to it.

Boone removed his hand from the upper corner of the page and placed it against Vulpes’ chest, stroked it along.

Rubs on his nipples left him helpless. He moaned. Vulpes snapped his jaw shut and defiantly maintained to himself that he wouldn’t utter another sound. He’d breathe but he’d stay silent otherwise.

Boone lifted the book with his left hand and worked the right one down from hard nipples to the slowly rising cock between Vulpes’ own legs.

No. No, this was too easy. Boone lowered himself to simple tactics here. He’d thought Boone better than this.

No, he hadn’t. Boone was a profligate, a whoreson, an NCR nobody who happened to capture him through nefarious means. Boone was just the simpleton to try something like this.

Boone’s breath hitched and toyed with the hair along Vulpes’ nape. “You’re not like those marble statues.”

Vulpes huffed. He pushed hard against the book, felt the pressure of the heavy tome on his legs. He hoped it hurt Boone’s hand and wrist. He didn’t care if it hurt his own member; that was a reasonable price to pay to make his swelling go down.

“And you’re still growing.” The tone sounded almost impressed.

No, just smugly satisfied. Boone wanted to embarrass him, shame him for his body’s reactions. He didn’t have to reply.

Then the hand removed itself, without Vulpes having to say anything. It returned to the corner of the page.

The page turned and Vulpes almost protested because he wasn’t done reading yet.

Boone turned the page back. “Tell me when you’re done.”

Well that was a foolish thing. Who let the slave set the-- Vulpes was not a slave. He kept reading and nodded a minute later, “I finished.”

“Good,” Boone slipped it to the next page once more.

Roses weren’t something he cared about. He dealt with birds because he appreciated their uses. He read about plants native to the regions he worked in because he needed to know about them if he was to be the most effective Vulpes he could be. But why read about roses from centuries before that no longer existed and couldn’t help him in any way?

“Oh.” Boone, at his neck.

Vulpes stifled a jolt, glanced back, asked, “What?”

Boone poked a spot on the page in response. “Most originated in Asia. Didn’t know that.”

Oh. Vulpes moved to the right page, skipped his section on the left. It certainly seemed like that was the case. “Veni Vidi Vici.”

“What?”

“Julius Caesar proclaimed that when he came back from there.”

“What does it mean?”

“You… want to know what a Latin phrase means?”

“Yes.”

“I came, I saw, I conquered.”

Boone chuckled.

Vulpes didn’t know if he’d pleased Boone from the tone of the laugh, or if he was about to take a punishment. Without looking back--which he refused to do as it showed weakness--he couldn’t be sure.

The hand returned to the page, ready to turn, but not lifted.

Vulpes read as quickly as he could. Roses were a decent subject to read about, at least compared to being left alone to only his thoughts all day.

Aside from the words on the seed satchel on his first escape attempt and the bird seed on his second, he hadn’t read anything in his entire time there, had he? No, that wasn’t true. There was an ever-present set of words he’d read nearly every day and never forgotten.

NCR 1st Recon. The last thing you never see.

Still more roses on the next page and he settled in more fully so he could read as comfortably as allowed, given the circumstances. The various ways roses could hybridize and adapt to circumstances was fascinating. How much tending they needed in order to live to adulthood was disappointing though; with the exception of a few species, it seemed roses only lived long in the care of tender gardeners and that explained why they’d all but died out.

Boone’s bulge returned.

He wasn’t sure if it was the _roses_ or Vulpes’ body pressed up against his chest and legs, but Vulpes didn’t much care either way. So long as those hands stayed off of him and he could read, he was fine with it.

So Boone shut the book. Of course he did.

He snapped his head to the side and glared up. “What--”

A kiss. Powerful, demanding, Boone pulled Vulpes into it and forced him to open up. A careful hand lifted the heavy tome, reached over and set it down on the floor, before it returned and wrapped about Vulpes.

Vulpes usually only kissed his captives--if he did at all-- after they’d finally let him see they wanted it. After they finally gave in and gave it all.

This was ahead of schedule even more than Boone stomping down in his socks and forcing reading time at near-dawn was. He didn’t appreciate--

Well, he appreciated _that_ a little. He could enjoy it and still be aware that the one doing it was a nothing, a nobody who would be less than a footnote in history. While Vulpes Inculta was already known throughout the land as being the best, Boone was insignificant.

A nobody who kissed reasonably well, considering the amount of stubble they had. Normally, he didn’t enjoy that feeling. Cecil was always smooth shaven.

Vulpes nearly pulled away, pulled back. Struggled.

Strong hands caught him, caressed him, coaxed him.

He’d play at acquiescence but he wouldn’t forget the plan. He couldn’t. He would escape, or he would die trying.

One hand stroked along his nipples again, played with each in equal regard; the other hand reached down and gave gentle somewhat lazy tugs, a complete contrast to the intense mouth that worked Vulpes’ above.

He didn’t ask for this, but his body accepted it anyway.

Really, he had no control over it. Even Caesar himself, great as he was, probably couldn’t resist sensual kisses like that and rough yet gentle rolls of Boone’s palm against everywhere that wanted it.

He calmed into the kisses, even as he sequestered a part of himself away from Boone. The physical could happen but he wouldn’t give more than that.

Vulpes stood when hands pushed. He moved ahead of Boone towards the table, even though he was lead there. _No,_ not towards the table. _Towards the stairs_ , a hand at his shoulder realigned him and he kept right on walking. Up the steps, all of them, until the top where the door wasn’t even locked.

Boone reached around him to open the door.

He could buck back, connect shoulders and head with Boone’s exposed face. Enough force and the impact would knock Boone out, topple him down the stairs. Maybe Boone’s neck would break on impact, maybe he’d simply fall unconscious. From that angle, it would be unlikely Boone would immediately stand back up.

From there, Vulpes could either run the best he could and find a safe place to hide inside while he worked his bonds and then escaped fully, or he could kill Boone. Take Boone down, work the bonds leisurely, heal up, and go along with the initial plan of finding good enough information to explain his absence.

They both walked through the doorway into what passed for a living room. Birdseed still slumped against the window, though it seemed emptier and a bit saggier. A short-legged table stood before a worn-out sofa and to the left side of the sofa stood a chair that looked exactly like the one Boone kept down below, though this one was in better condition. The upholstery seemed intact and there were no strange stains, nor duct tape along the arm rests.

Boone placed a firm hand on the small of his back and urged him to hobble on over to the sofa.

He could work with this. Boone didn’t want to take Vulpes in a way that made Boone uncomfortable, he only wanted to do so in comfort. That was a sign of weakness.

Vulpes would have just taken Boone over the table, he’d have slammed into him and punished him for all the things Boone had done. In truth, he'd wanted to do that before, but he'd figured taking Carla and selling her off would get Boone to kill himself and all debts could be repaid.

The jangle of a key made him look back, briefly, before the press of a hand to the back of his head made him look forward.

Boone knelt. Boone released the first shackle and then the second one; metal thunked onto the carpet. Boone raised the shackles up, then closed them once more around the front wooden leg of the sofa and then around the table leg nearest.

If he’d only responded faster. If he’d only been less tired, less exhausted, less aroused. Vulpes stayed where Boone had him and waited.

“Lay down.”

The tiniest voice edged out, told him to disobey. Told him to try to upturn the furniture, to vault out the still-open window, to run and run until he couldn’t anymore. His hands weren't free, but his legs mattered here.

Vulpes laid on the sofa, distinctly aware of how vulnerable he was. Somehow having free legs only increased his feelings of discomfort. Boone could position him in any position. Vulpes couldn’t do anything.

Boone knelt before the long low table and pulled out a little drawer, plucked a bottle free.

Oh. Well, he could be thankful lube would be used, couldn’t he?

No. This was a trick. He’d go along with it but that didn’t make this something it wasn’t.

He clenched. The finger didn’t hurt but he wasn’t about to blatantly encourage it. He clenched and it didn’t matter because one finger became two became three and all three curled and stretched and explored him, even though he clenched.

Boone didn’t even seem to notice his little bit of unspoken disobedience. Maybe Boone thought Vulpes was always this tight. Maybe Boone didn’t care.

It didn’t matter though, his slice of rebellion didn’t keep Boone from lining up and sliding in inch by thick inch. It didn’t stop Boone from laying over top of him and kissing all the erogenous zones in reach: neck, jaw, chest, nipples. It didn’t stop Boone from rolling those luscious hips and pulling Vulpes’ legs about his strong shoulders.

It didn’t stop Vulpes from coming with a gasp and sigh against his own stomach, or keep Boone from doing the same a moment later and spilling within.

No, for all his tenseness and mental protest, nothing changed course. Boone got what he wanted.

He didn’t resist when the shackles were put back on his ankles down in the basement. He just let it happen, lay down on his back, ignored the fluids that coated him inside and out, and went to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They keep each other guessing.

 

He hated having a beard. He absolutely hated it. It didn’t grow in fully on his face but in sparse patches of uneven length. The hairs were thick and irritating. The worst part was it took nearly a month for him to get to this length last time he’d attempted to grow one, so he’d been there at least a month.

He hated worse to not have a beard. No, that wasn’t right. He hated that it wasn’t his choice. Boone brought him to the bathroom, set him in the tub, and told him to lay still.

The part that didn’t want to live if he was nothing more than a captive told him to struggle and push against the straight razor, to let the supremely sharp edge end a life no longer worth living.

The part that wanted to live reminded him of all the ways he could escape.

Well, the part that lived reminded him of his goal. It was a bit difficult to set his thoughts to much of anything when something sharp enough to end him casually glided along the shaving cream lathered over his chin and face.

Boone adjusted Vulpes’ head to the side a bit, to get a better angle. The blade followed every curve, even along Vulpes' pulse and half-stifled swallows. “You have smooth skin.” 

Yes, remind him of it. He’d certainly heard it enough growing up. When he’d worn another name, another label, he’d been reminded of what such fine skin reminded the others of. Though, even then, none had dared to take the liberties that Boone did.

Why bother shaving him? Was it merely an assertion of power? A reminder that Boone could do anything to him, at any time? Did Boone not like the look any more than Vulpes would have, had he glanced at himself in the cracked bathroom mirror?

Boone finished. With an air of finality, he washed the blade off beneath the running bath water, then wiped it dry on a clean cotton towel and folded it back.

Hands scrubbed at him, though he could easily do it himself even with the shackles around his wrists and ankles. Hands claimed him with soapy suds and errant touches in places that made him shiver from more than just the frigid water.

He hated it, but he was thankful for the cold. It kept his body from betraying him physically, at least. It shielded him from the little comments about his manhood, oddly.

Boone cupped his hands and poured a gentle stream of water down his body. Boone rinsed and repeated.

Finally, Boone helped him stand and assisted him in moving over the edge of the porcelain tub. “Careful. It’s slippery.”

He’d prefer the beating of the day before to the kindness, some days. At least with a beating, he could feel satisfied that he made Boone do _something_. That he was in control, even only in that tiny way.

A stray glance at the spider-webbed cracks in the mirror told him he looked smooth again, if a bit worse for wear elsewhere. A bruise mottled along his lower jaw, likely from the punch he’d received when he’d lied.

He didn’t regret the lie. Boone didn’t get to know if he’d been with any other men. Boone could go straight to the crucifixion pole, he’d sooner die than admit to it. To explain about Cecil.

Boone lead him to the sofa again.

Joke was on Boone. He hated shaving and he hated bathtime when he wasn’t in charge, so there would be no positive associations that particular day. Even the comfort of the couch and the relative warmth in the living room wouldn’t make Vulpes give in and almost feel enjoyment.

He hated that. That he knew exactly what Boone was doing because, by and large, Boone did things in a way that made sense. When he didn’t, it was only a bit of thought before Vulpes realized how to adapt.

Boone unchained his ankles and wrists.

Vulpes blinked. This was a trick. This was definitely a trick.

Boone didn’t even still his actions, he just sat and tugged Vulpes over onto his lap. Arms embraced Vulpes by the waist, while those lips caressed him at the throat. “Good.”

Was he good? Had he done something? Was Boone referring to how he didn’t resist, to how he forced himself to relax instead of striking out while he had a chance? “What is?”

“A fresh shave. It’s good. You were overdue and starting to scratch my lips.”

The explanation was longer than required, almost like Boone was willing to have a conversation. Maybe if they did, Boone wouldn’t try that trick where he-- _that one._ Vulpes squirmed but didn’t fight against the fingers that tweaked and twisted his nipples. He didn’t like it, but only because his body made him croon sometimes when Boone worked his erogenous zones well enough.

Usually, Vulpes was the active one. Even if a slave were to ride him, or go down on him, or any number of sexual acts, he was the one who drove that forward. He instructed.

But Boone didn’t let him. Boone took over, forced Vulpes to take a passive role. Did Boone force that? Did Boone demand that he merely be compliant? Could he assert himself? He certainly managed to get more conversations out of Boone than he’d allow most slaves and captives to get out of him.

Vulpes, ever the bold one, turned his head to kiss Boone.

Hands tightened, clutched him harder. The sensation rocked along the edge of pain and something he could enjoy.

He almost pulled from the kiss, retreated before it could turn unpleasant.

Boone kissed back, opened his mouth, and let Vulpes inside. Rough hands turned some type of soothing; they stroked his chest with less pressure and more ghosting pleasure.

Vulpes shifted, so he could face Boone more comfortably, so he could lean into Boone further and take more of a lead. Hands wrapped around Boone’s shoulders and stroked at the muscles there.

Boone moaned.

He could feel that length so hard beneath his body. He could feel every twitch, and he felt Boone shift to find a more comfortable spot. He ground his hips down instead, intent on not allowing Boone that comfort. No, let Boone feel every bit of his sliding hips and--

Was this what Boone wanted?

Boone reached down and unlatched his buckle, then pulled the leather to the side a bit so he could work the fly. Green eyes stared up at Vulpes, never broke eye contact even as they continued their kiss.

It was, wasn’t it? Boone--remarkably and infuriatingly competent-- planned for it, hadn’t he?

No. Boone hadn’t. There was no way. He merely gave that impression because Vulpes’ overthought simple actions far too frequently. Boone hadn’t unshackled him fully to get Vulpes more eager. That was nonsense.

Satisfied, Vulpes continued the kiss, reached down and shoved Boone’s hands away so he could take them out himself.

That action could have gotten a smack. It could have gotten a lot of things. But it didn’t. All it got was Boone breaking the kiss and leaning back a bit to better appreciate the touches.

Encouraged, Vulpes stroked along Boone, matched touches Boone had done in the bath. It seemed to work. Boone’s breath hitched and came out in soft pants; his pupils dilated even further despite the light; he stroked little pleasant-feeling patterns into Vulpes’ back in return.

Those hands crawled lower, along his spine they walked, until they parted his cheeks and teased at his entrance.

Not to be outplayed, he stroked Boone in quicker tugs, pulled at the NCR man until there was no choice but to jerk to his sexual ministrations.

Boone ceased toying at Vulpes’ bottom, reached to the front, and stilled Vulpes’ hands. “Lay down.”

Well. It didn’t seem to be one of the punishment tones. He’d managed to gain some leverage, to learn a bit more about what Boone’s body responded to. He’d know more about Boone’s weaknesses than Boone did by the time he was through.

He lay down, head against the armrest, body spread only enough Boone could do the rest himself. He wasn’t the eager one, Boone was.

Boone spread Vulpes’ legs with ease and positioned himself up against the entrance. He didn’t push in, he just rubbed, prodded at the sensitive flesh. Then, the hand that held Boone’s cock shifted forward and began to work Vulpes over again; it pushed inside and curled up how Vulpes loved.

Vulpes lifted his legs a bit more, gave better access. He didn’t want this to tear, he didn’t want to become injured. He’d maintain himself, physically, as much as he could.

The opposite hand reached forward and pressed against Vulpes’ lips. “Suck.”

It was the first time Boone had put anything besides food, water, or Boone’s mouth into his mouth. He opened up and took in the three ready fingers. They tasted faintly of soap but not enough to deter him. If this was the lubrication he’d get, he’d make it enough.

Boone pulled his fingers free and curled them a bit to keep the saliva on and rolling along skin, instead of dripping back down onto Vulpes. Those fingers moved quickly to the entrance where the other finger worked.

It didn’t hurt. It could have, but Boone didn’t shove things in, he took his time. Though he didn’t go slowly, he merely worked with careful stretching motions.

Another day he might see what he could get away with, but he’d already done that enough for one encounter. If he tiptoed the line, nudged boundaries rather than crossed them, he’d have a much easier time getting Boone to relax.

Boone kept one hand angled inside and moved the other over Vulpes’ length, “You like that?”

It was less likely, on the moderate safety of the sofa, that Boone would then declare ‘answer’ and set the timer before pleasure turned to not. Vulpes still nodded, managed to say, “Yes.”

The hands rewarded him. The one along Vulpes’ length squeezed with exactly the right pressure, pushed the foreskin back and thumbed at the head; the other hand pressed a third and likely final finger in and curled it, stretched Vulpes out deliciously. “Good.”

Praise. A part he hadn’t been aware of loosened up a bit, let tension roll out of him as those fingers stroked up. Vulpes sighed, leaned his head further against the armrest and allowed Boone to prepare him.

Boone leaned in, used his mouth over Vulpes’ length. The tongue undulated, worked him over fully. Down the mouth went, so nice, so warm, so unbearably good. Boone didn’t go all the way, merely half down. Coupled with the hand strokes, that was all that mattered. Though Boone’s tongue and lips were an utter delight, he felt little grazes of pain and was well aware that a strong jaw filled with teeth lay beneath barely curled lips. Was it a threat? A show that Boone could end a part of Vulpes with little effort? Or was it inexperience? Had Boone not done this before?

Even with the pain, he enjoyed it. He reached down and stroked at the sides of Boone's head.

Then Boone pulled off with a loud pop of his lips. He didn’t seem to think a thing about what he’d just done. Hands merely pulled away from and off of Vulpes and focused on lining Boone up with the hole in front of him.

Boone pushed in, an ever-slow process that stretched on for at least a minute.

Vulpes liked to go faster than that, to feel things immediately, deeply. But he couldn’t deny he enjoyed a leisurely pace, especially one that-- yes he could deny it. He didn’t fight, not physically. He spread his legs out a bit, lifted them up onto Boone’s hips, held tight. Mentally though, he didn’t have to give in.

Lips on his made that resolve waver, especially when he tasted his own slightly salty taste within Boone’s mouth, or at the very least he thought he did. Maybe it was only a thought; he’d been left alone too much to his thoughts and it made them all pull and string out like a ball of unraveled twine. Did it matter?

Boone helped position Vulpes’ legs over his shoulders; he helped them both get that perfect angle.

It didn’t take long. Boone over him, on him, taking him, Vulpes didn’t hold back long. Neither did Boone.

Dimly, he was aware he’d spilled seed first. His cock had throbbed and spat lines of white onto his curled stomach and chest before Boone’s thrusts had become too erratic, too rough for it to be anything but the call of an orgasm. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

If a slave, or even a partner, had come first he would have made them acutely aware of it. He would have rubbed the fluids into their face, told them they should have waited. If he didn’t outright punish them, he’d have at the very least humiliated them.

Instead, Boone pulled out and tucked himself away before he leaned over and brought the heap of metal shackles and chains up. “Follow me.” And away he went, seemingly unconcerned that Vulpes would refuse.

The open window tempted him. The smug doves that called outside the window, brought there by Boone’s own actions, reminded him.

Vulpes followed Boone. Even past the damn basement door, even through a hallway, even into a clean, though Spartan, bedroom.

He allowed Boone to shackle his wrists to the steel bed post.

Boone laid down beside him and pulled out the encyclopedia again.

It’d been days since he’d seen the pages. He wanted to move closer, to look too. He stayed still.

Boone scooted closer himself. He turned the book enough Vulpes could see.

What a fool. Boone was clearly growing too trusting. Vulpes hadn’t been broken and he wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t be softened by ‘gentle’ gestures.

Vulpes knew nothing about the Rosetta stone but the page held interesting pictures of a cracked and aged monolith along with fairly fascinating titles along the many columns.

He wondered where the stone was. Had it lasted so many centuries, traveled through all that time and brought about so many linguistic breakthroughs, only to crack and break into dust when the world ended and something new began?

Not long after, the book was put away and Boone turned out the bedroom lamp and left them in near total darkness, with only a hint of moonlight to let him see anything.

He didn’t know if Boone was actually asleep or not, the man was so silent. But he couldn’t stay awake any longer himself. It had been days of little sleep and he was exhausted. So he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, Inca doves are a real species, native to that region, that absolutely does have a mournful sounding 'no hope, no hope' cry that it lets out at all times of the day. Vulpes has been keenly aware of that for years, but it's only recently that he's upset about it.
> 
> I wasn't going to say anything, but I found this call of it and I CANNOT hold it in. This bird is such a delight. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5MiEf7sCVpE


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vulpes gets a nice plaid shirt.

 

He felt Boone’s arm loop over him, felt Boone shift inward and curl up closer.

Carla had been Boone’s wife.

Vulpes had taken Carla, in more ways than one.

Boone wanted… a replacement?

No. Vulpes kept his eyes shut, didn’t let his mind go along that line of thought. This was only more trickery, more nonsense that meant to disturb and disjoint his mind, that was all. If Boone sought out physical pleasures with Vulpes, it was only a means to an end. This was torture, plain and simple.

Boone kissed Vulpes shoulder then nuzzled in close.

If Vulpes had been thinking, he would have worked on the shackles while Boone slept. But then, he’d been so tired, so sore, so overwhelmed. He couldn’t really blame himself for the timing of things, Boone was the one who made things difficult and didn’t just stay consistent.

That left hand situated itself along Vulpes’ left hip, thumbed at it and stroked fingers in a sensuous pattern along a sensitive inner thigh, “We’re going to a store today.”

Ah. Everything clicked into place. He could appreciate what Boone was doing. Clean Vulpes up, treat him nice, make him feel good, let him have bits of freedom and ensure he didn’t try anything foolish like running. Vulpes would have done it the opposite for Boone; beat him for small infractions, increase severity for each mistake, speak harshly, then say they were headed out and Boone better behave or else.

Boone kissed Vulpes’ neck. “I have some clothes for you.”

Of course, they’d be decent clothes. Boone wouldn’t want to appear like someone who had a slave, that wasn’t exactly looked on with kind eyes by the profligates, even as they treated poor people like slaves anyway.

It was a trick, but he nodded as if he had a say in this particular thing anyway. He almost smiled at that.

My how the mighty fell, came crashing to their knees.

Boone rose up, pushed the soft cotton blanket back, then moved over Vulpes’ prone body. Boone pressed his cargos hard against nude legs, leaned in until his shirt lay over a bared chest, moved in so Vulpes could see every flicker of emotion on Boone’s face. “You won’t try to run.”

Interesting choice, to call up a command after so many simple statements and almost gentle questions the day before. It added a spark of authority to the entire situation that was otherwise riddled with muddled boundaries and blurred status.

Vulpes nodded. “I won’t.”

Part of him expected those firm hands around his neck, punishment fitting to the lie offered. He wouldn’t ‘try’ to run. He would succeed.

The ruse paid off. Boone considered him meek enough to go to the store. Boone was weak and softer with him, and Vulpes would leave.

He didn’t even have to worry about being nude in the desert or in the mountains any longer, Boone would provide an escape costume for him directly. Nor did he, likely, have to worry about the chains about his wrist that bound him to the bed. It wouldn’t look good on Boone if he had someone in tow with shackles on their wrists.

Boone nodded. “Good.” Boone rolled off of him, then pulled out the key and unlocked Vulpes’ shackles. “Do you cook?”

He had many words for Boone and his clear desire to make Vulpes cook, but instead, he replied, “Every man in the Legion must know how to take care of himself before looking to others.”

“So you cook?”

“Yes.” No use pretending otherwise and certainly, he didn’t want to puff up and make Boone deny him this chance. He could be good a bit longer.

No, not good. He could be obedient. Being good and being obedient were not the same in this situation and he would not conflate the two.

Boone patted him on the right shoulder and assisted him up and out of bed. “I’ve got gecko steaks in the fridge and two eggs. Make our breakfast.” And off he went, out the bedroom door, down the long hallway, and into the bathroom. Moments later, Vulpes heard telltale sounds of shuffled clothing, zippers, and then water running.

This was stupid. Boone was smarter than this.

Vulpes stepped into the hall and glanced into the bathroom. Boone lay there in the tub, scrubbing at his own body as though he hadn’t a concern. Not a one. Despite, even, how a straight razor sat right there at the edge of the sink and Vulpes could make a move for it and take Boone down.

Boone didn’t even look at him, but that meant very little.

Vulpes nodded and continued on through the hall, into the living area and past that into the tiled kitchen. For all its ancient appearance, it was tidy and neat. It hardly looked trashy like so many of the attempts at homesteading.

It hardly looked like the room he’d been in even months after Carla was taken and Boone was depressed. That one had been cramped, gray, and strewn with alcohol bottles. This place was almost sunny and cheerful, with bright clean drapes over the squared kitchen window, pastel paint along the walls, and scrubbed appliances and counters. Even when Boone still had Carla, the hotel room hadn’t been this nice.

What did that mean?

He opened the fridge and pulled out the ingredients necessary. A few interesting spices lined a metal rack connected to the side of the fridge. He considered using them, but determined bland but nutritious to be better. He didn’t know what those spices might taste like and he didn’t need an accusation that Vulpes drugged Boone to ruin his escape later.

Though, if he were to conceal a bit of overcooked xander root in with even a little of that black pepper, he could create a mixture that would lead to drowsiness. In higher dosages, doled into alcohol or dirty water, he’d been able to knock out his enemies and take them captive.

Still, he didn’t have any xander root in the building and he wouldn’t judge it safe to go outside to the macabre garden, even with Boone busy in the bath. That, and it wasn’t as though the root would cook quick enough for that to work. He’d have to slow roast it for many hours.

He finished scrambling the eggs within the pan and set them over the burner. On the back burner, two pieces of thick steak caramelized with a pleasant sizzle; they already smelled like they should, meaty and rich.

Water stopped running in the bathroom. Splashes, quiet but present, sounded. Boone hummed something, a soft little almost melancholy tune.

Did he act so casually when Vulpes wasn’t up above? Or was this an act? It was likely only Boone relaxed. This was a normal thing to Boone, even if it was foreign to Vulpes.

It usually took him two months before he’d even pretend to give the same privacy and freedom to a slave. And even then, Vulpes never gave this much. It was an act, surely, but it was a foolish one.

So how come Vulpes kept getting caught?

With impeccable timing, Boone padded into the kitchen covered in nothing more than a towel, just as Vulpes lay the two chipped porcelain plates down. Boone stretched, showed off more muscles than a sniper had any right to have, and settled into the chair before the plate with more food.

He’d ingratiate Boone. Give him more, let Boone see that he understood his place.

Boone scraped a bit of his eggs over onto Vulpes with a single sentence, “You’re too thin.”

A faux show of compassion? A sly attempt to push any possible poison onto Vulpes’ plate as well? A pointed remark to remind Vulpes exactly why he was even more thin than usual?

Vulpes sat. He nodded, then said, “Thank you.” With downcast eyes, he ate silently.

Boone didn’t even seem to check his food over before he scarfed it down, as though he were the one underweight.

Vulpes hadn’t poisoned the food, but if he didn’t find the right moment to escape that day, he could at least look into pilfering something that would allow him to poison Boone. It would only be too easy.

He smiled and kept right on eating. He hadn’t had such a nice meal in over a month.

\---~~~---

He really was too thin. Vulpes turned to the side and frowned at the line of cotton that didn’t settle quite right over his frame. He looked boxy, yet narrow. It wasn’t a good look, even if the red plaid was reminiscent of his favored colors.

Boone watched him with a plain expression. “It’s time to go.”

Fine. But he didn’t like it. Even if he nodded and played the game so his disappointment wasn’t clear, he was frustrated. He looked ridiculous.

He missed his hat.

“I need some scrap metal, some fresh dirt, and some new seeds.”

Bile normally would threaten to rise, but actual food rolled in his stomach instead and almost crawled up his throat.

Boone stilled. “I’m not burying you, unless you give me a reason.” He didn’t even bother to look back at Vulpes.

No promises. Fine. He could deal with the implication of _later_ far better than _right as soon as we get back_. He’d be escaped anyway, it didn’t matter.

“I have lots of space for a garden and I’d like to be self-reliant up here.”

Ah yes, good. Self-reliance, while normally a thing to respect, was something Vulpes was less fond of, all things considered. If Boone had less reason to go down below and get supplies, Vulpes had fewer chances to attempt an escape.

He would escape, here was his chance. He just had to wait a few hours, or even minutes. Perhaps he’d do it on the trip back, especially if it was evening? There were any number of ways to do it so he’d keep his options open.

“Did you ever plant anything?”

“No. I didn’t bother myself with that.” He didn’t say it was women’s work, even if a month before it would have curled out of his mouth. It would have gotten him a beating too, he had no doubt. Though, Boone was odd with what he punished.

“I never did either. The first two attempts didn’t work, even on the simple plants.”

“What did you do?”

“I used better dirt. There’s a bag of good black dirt that should work even better.”

Just for a garden. Not to punish him, not to bury him alive. He didn’t have to panic about that, yet. At all. He’d be free.

Boone, ever a fool, let him see the area. Let him take in just exactly where they were situated. Vulpes, brilliant with geography, took note of every curve of the land, of the color of the dirt, of the particular form of the rocks in the region. It was simple to know where they were-- nowhere he’d ever seen before. Nothing was familiar.

That was fine. Boone had likely just sequestered them somewhere away from the areas Vulpes tended to scout. It wasn’t that he couldn’t go further in any direction months before, but that the most important use of his time was to be right where the action was. Nipton, so close to the Strip and to the NCR, to remind them of what they faced. The Strip itself, to negotiate with those idiot thugs in Gomorrah and get the NCR out of New Vegas. Side projects and missions to weaken the NCR and its citizens and all that opposed the Legion and Caesar.

Maybe he had been this far. If not himself, he’d received a report of a place that looked similar. Or he’d heard of it. Or perhaps he’d gone too long without good sleep and adequate food and water. His mind didn’t normally insert lies where he searched for memories, but lately, it tended to slip that way.

If he didn’t know exactly where he was, it didn’t serve to consider. He would see a sign eventually, they were along the main road, going west according to the sun.

West. Just how far west were they? Further, certainly, than Vulpes had ever dared tread. He wasn’t a fool. He didn’t take courier jobs and pretend to be a no one so far into enemy territory, he was far too known for that. The NCR disseminated posters of his face, after all, he wasn’t about to walk into the land they truly had a handle on.

That’s what it was, wasn’t it? The reports, they’d been from frumentarii who’d gone in with the Crimson Caravan Company or started work with any number of other NCR companies that shifted around West. He had seen this place.

“Something wrong?”

Damn it. “Where are we?” He kept his voice level, as well as he could given the circumstances.

“West.”

Boone overshared unimportant details and undershared the ones Vulpes needed. This wasn’t a surprise, it wasn’t even disappointing. He should have expected it. “Where West?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

That phrase served as a simple reminder, a version of ‘answer’ in terms of expected obedience.

This wasn’t only NCR territory; this was deep in the NCR. Even in the distance, when he squinted he could see a stretch of chain link fence and multiple people stepping about, tiny like the little ants that still clung to existence even among their mutated cousins.

Those were soldiers. He could see them with their straight postures, confident steps, and rifles in relaxed positions in hands or over their shoulders.

He couldn’t run, could he? They’d send dogs after him, even vertibirds if this area was far enough out west. Well, he could run, but he’d die. He’d rather die than give up information. He wouldn’t turn against the Legion.

“You won’t try to run.” It wasn’t even a command, it came out as a simple statement. Boone believed it but didn’t put much effort behind it. He didn’t push the words out.

He wouldn’t try to run. He should have taken a chance miles before but he hadn’t and now he couldn’t.

“Almost took us to the other store, back that way,” Boone hitched his thumb up and pointed east. “But a guy I knew works in the commissary. We didn’t see eye to eye.”

Did Boone realize how much information he was giving Vulpes? Of course he did. He had to. So, was it the truth? It didn’t really matter, Vulpes heard what he needed. They were surrounded on all sides by massive amounts of NCR.

Vulpes Inculta--one of the most wanted Legion men and a prisoner of war--was tucked tightly inside the NCR. He didn’t even know where yet.

This could work. No, it worked just fine for him. When he did succeed in escaping, he’d be already smuggled within NCR borders. If Boone introduced him to anyone, or at the least was seen with him by anyone, then he wouldn’t tick up nearly as much suspicion. He could gather intel none of the frumentarii beneath him could and he could run directly back to Legion.

He’d be a hero. Caesar would see how he’d braved through enemy lines in the pursuit of knowledge and all would be forgiven, despite the month-long absence. Give or take a few weeks.

“This one’s closer anyway and it’s got better everything.”

“You aren’t worried someone will recognize me?”

“Nope.”

“They don’t put posters with my face out here?”

Boone chuckled. “I first saw that poster here, actually. Before I was even 1st Recon.”

He stalled his steps for a moment before he hurried along behind and caught up with Boone’s sure steps. “Then they might notice me.”

“Maybe. That’d probably be better for you. You wouldn’t be stuck with me anymore. You could tell them if you wanted.” There wasn’t quite an edge to the voice, even if there was an unspoken challenge. Go ahead. Tell them. See what they do to you.

“There are… laws against torturing the enemy, within the NCR at least.” No such luck for Boone when the tables turned.

“There are for them. But I’m not in the military anymore. I don’t have to follow them. And I know a lotta guys, in service or out, who’d love nothing more than to…” He glanced over for the first time during the trip. He ticked his thumb in the direction of the fence. “Gate’s over there. If you’re going to run, you should do it now. Once we’re in, it’d be stupid to try something.”

Boone didn’t normally spell things out so direct. When he did, usually it was a sentence piled onto another, and then silence. He’d let Vulpes tease it all apart.

Vulpes kept his pace beside Boone until they were right up to the gate.

The man went from relaxed against the gate to straight upright, eyes up and paying attention, body stiff. “Boone. Good to see you again. And a friend?”

“Yeah, old friend. Fox.” Boone nodded.

The gate opened.

Vulpes followed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vulpes gets the dirt.

 

“And that’s how I was buck naked in the middle of the camp with nothing but my rifle and a sock on my, y’know.” Dark skin blushed plum and the boy shrugged in an over-the-top sheepish manner that worked well for him.

Boone laughed. Everyone laughed. Vulpes did what everyone did.

Though this one was of a lower rank, Boone talked to them like they were family. Treated them well, despite his own social status being higher.

This was not how Boone was in Novac, even in the weeks Vulpes watched him before he captured Carla. Boone had been like this with only her and a bit with that Manny Vargas. Everyone else he was cold to. His terseness did not make him friends.

He half-wished Cecil had been found dead along that stretch of road on the day shift. Manny Vargas would have been far easier to punish. But it wasn’t. It was the night shift. It was Boone. Boone started all of this.

Killinger, that was the young recruit’s name. The boy looked like he wasn't old enough to grow a beard. He sat and stuck out among dozens of aged and hardened soldiers who showed a rare softer side with him. Likely, they only did it because he had a certain casual and carefree manner about him when telling stories.

Even Vulpes found himself relaxing at the latest tale of lust found and lust lost, told in the almost sweet manner the young man spoke with.

Killinger grinned in a lopsided manner, though not with any smugness, just with a sense of an asymmetrical face. The smile widened just a bit and Vulpes saw why. A chipped front tooth he likely had some paranoia about. Well, his face still remained attractive, even for that minor flaw.

“What about you?” One across from them, a man with thick brows and striking hazel eyes nodded at Vulpes. “You have any stories, Fox? You’ve been quieter than Boone over there.”

That got another round of laughter and even a single quiet chuckle from Boone.

Vulpes blinked. Eyes focused on him, and now he was meant to speak. He offered his most charming smile, eased away any residual guile from his thoughts of the trip, and leaned in over the table between them all. “I’m not much for stories.”

“Maybe how you met Boone?” The same man’s thick voice didn’t rub with suspicion, merely honest curiosity.

Vulpes laughed, flexed his face to say _what a funny story that is_ , and lightly tapped Boone on the back. “Oh, I think he tells that better than I do.” He turned, angled his face just barely at Boone to read the expression.

Boone chuckled again, that soft huff of breath that wouldn’t count for most, but did for him when it rode on the back of a somewhat-smile. “It’s not much to tell.”

“Whatever happened to Vargas? Last I heard you two were off in some tiny town in the middle of fucking nowhere.” Someone with a disgraceful mustache leaned in. It was far too thick for Vulpes to take anything he said seriously.

Boone shrugged. “He’s still there.”

“That’s not your style though?” Mustached man had no sense of propriety and personal boundaries, it seemed. That, or he just steamed right through them in his effort to pry.

Boone shrugged more insistently. His shoulders cracked with their roll. “We don’t see eye to eye.”

“That’s a shame, you two were always tight. Though, you seem more relaxed than last time you stomped on in here. Could it be your new friend here?” Mustache man had egg on his face. Literally, it hung there, and no one seemed willing to tell him. He just kept talking between bites and the egg kept on shifting along the thick brown hairs, but not falling.

Good. Let him look even more like a fool. Vulpes smirked.

“He’s my gardener. He helped me carry the dirt today and pick some seeds, and his friends built the foundation.”

Vulpes continued with his expression, but only because he wanted to sink into the bench. He wanted to melt like the heat had threatened him the entire trip over. He wanted to die, but not be buried. Not by Boone, at least.

“Oh yeah? You got a buncha guys with green thumbs? Man, Lorinda you know she loves gardens. She’s got a nice one back home, but without a bunch of water, it’s not as lush as she wants.” Mustache revealed family details. Now Vulpes only needed to learn his name and find out where he lived, and he could--

Was it Mustache he wanted to punish, or Boone beside him who put him on the spot in the most morbid way?

“Carla wanted one too.” Boone lifted his beer up, tipped it back. “So she’s getting one.”

Somehow that topic was even worse. Vulpes kept that smirk, far longer than was appropriate. He folded it back into the same approximate look the others sported. Empathy. Sympathy. He nodded to their sad nods, but he did not look at Boone, he would not look at Boone.

Vulpes swallowed the last bite of his own eggs. His stomach rolled and bloated, confused at two meals in a day, but he took it in anyway. He feasted and he would continue to do so until he wasn’t able to anymore. No one but Boone would tell him no. And Boone couldn’t, not without looking like an ass.

“So, I just got back from East. Thank God they rotate some of us around. I mean, don’t get me wrong, killing Legion feels good,” Someone far too tall for it to be reasonable spoke in a forced gruff voice, asserting machismo instead of manliness, “but being back here where things make sense, that’s what I like.”

“Can’t wait to kick the Legion’s ass already, I’m so sick of just holding the lines,” One with a pair of sunglasses like Boone’s spoke, “General Wait and See needs to hurry the fuck up and rush them. We’ve got as many boys as we’re ever going to have.”

Killinger nodded too, though here he seemed to have lost his smile.

Did he not like the idea of killing? He seemed a tad green to be a soldier on the lines. Had he taken Legion before? He was young, malleable. Perhaps…

“Last time I was back that way, I hit my 50 kill mark. Caught a whole bunch of scouts and some of those ones with the frills everywhere.”

“Strutting peacocks. Makes them an easy target.”

“Hey Boone, what was yours again?”

Boone laughed. “I never was good at math.”

Bullshit. Vulpes had seen Boone figure complex gardening problems out right in his head and he knew _damn well_ Boone counted each body that hit the ground. That was a Boone thing to do.

“What about you, stranger?” Mustache still had egg, but it had migrated to the border between hair and his chapped pink lips. “You ever kill Legion?”

Boone seemed to want to answer, he leaned in, he opened his mouth.

Vulpes was too quick, “I killed 37.”

“But you’re not even a soldier.” Killinger, seemingly blown by that.

Vulpes shrugged, “You do what you have to do in the Mojave. Everyone just wants to survive.”

Subtle fingers played at the small of his back. They tucked Vulpes’ shirt in at the slacks, then retreated at a glacial pace.

No one noticed, or no one said anything. Vulpes swallowed his own beer, brought to him by Boone with the meal. If he didn’t know he’d been recruited to carry all 50 pounds of dirt while Boone carried the seeds, he’d be wary to drink the beer and risk being drugged again. Still, he’d have to stick to one beer. Thankfully, since it tasted awful and clung to the tongue like moist dust.

Conversation cut to a close by the time they all finished their drinks and meals. Slowly, as though adrift on an ancient sea, they all spread around the base.

Boone remained, right there beside him. Finally, he gathered his dishes and recyclables together and set them down in the wash bucket, ready for the worker to gather.

Vulpes followed suit.

\---~~~---

They were halfway home when the sack of dirt thumped onto the desert floor, and Boone crushed Vulpes' back against a high-raised rock.

Rough fingers pulled his shirt free, tugged it from the pants, and then worked those down as well. Boone closed the minor gap between them with ragged kisses and needy gropes at all exposed flesh his hands could reach.

Vulpes thought it punishment until he realized how nice it felt, even if the hands were more rough than usual.

Reward. “Why?” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. It wasn’t exactly a complaint, just, such a surprise his filter leaked.

“Did you really kill 37?”

“Yes.”

Reward. Boone reached down and tugged Vulpes into the moment like he was so good at. “Why?”

Maybe a trick. Maybe not. He’d answer. “They wanted to kill me. They deserved it.”

Boone bit his throat, hard enough to get him harder.

Vulpes moaned, needy, and clung his fingers to Boone’s white tee, clenched his fingers into the smooth fabric. “Someone could…”

“Follow us?” Boone smirked, that wry look he sometimes got. “We’re alone.”

It was a filthy thing to do, rut outside like animals. He preferred it in tents or the remains of buildings if he had to rough it. But there was a certain appeal.

No. No there wasn’t.

Boone turned him around, forced Vulpes’ palms up against the face of the rock. “Spread.”

He did, though it was a bit awkward with how his pants still clung to ankles, bunched up thick, and Boone didn’t seem inclined to let him take them off in his rush.

Fingers didn’t have to treat him gently, they didn’t need to oil and rub him like a virgin each time. There was a certain thrill in being taken, rough and hard, but not as punishment.

It was all punishment, forever.

A moan peeled out of his throat, crawled against the surface of the rock like his fingers did.

Boone teased the third finger around the other two, then pushed it in without further warning. “You like it, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He hated how his own body could be a turncoat. He spread his legs only a bit further, enough that the pants stretched deliciously against the seams even as Boone stretched Vulpes’ own body out further.

Only the absence of fingers indicated what would happen next. Then Boone was in, gripping and pulling and pounding Vulpes into the rock as though to drill it and break it all apart. One hand lifted and slammed down, likely blossomed a bright print where paler flesh usually lay.

Spanking. It wasn’t meant to hurt, but to arouse. He’d used the same sort before, titillated even those that resisted violence. It worked. It made his cock bounce and twitch with need; he thrust backward into Boone’s brutal thrusts.

There were no kisses then, just nips and bites. Claiming marks.

Boone panted and breathed unbearably hot against Vulpes’ throat. “Do you want to come?”

New territory. Normally, Boone just touched him until he did. “Yes. Please.”

“Not until I do. Get on your knees.”

He wouldn’t call himself eager, even if his knees landed too soon and he scraped the skin away. He was just… pushed onto his palms as well. He’d expected to suck Boone off, but evidently, Boone didn’t want that yet.

Boone moved around behind Vulpes, lined his cock up once more, and forced his way in. Not that there was much resistance. One hand groped Vulpes’ right shoulder, used it to create stability; the other hand smacked Vulpes’ ass hard enough that the noise resounded through the mountainous path. “I could have taken you there.”

That got another needy twitch from his cock, but he refused to comment on it. He only moaned and pushed his face against the back of his hands. Everything was a hot, bright sort of pain, but he didn’t hate it. He’d sort through it all later; for the moment he focused.

Thick length inside him, so nice and satisfying. It left him full, then pulled back and rubbed so good against his nerves, before it angled right back up against the most delightful spot.

“You couldn’t moan like that though. Everyone would show up. I’ve got a lot of will, but I almost didn’t have enough to wait.”

Evidently ‘to wait’ only meant until they were most of the way home, not all of it. Was he so desirable? Was he only-- Vulpes bit his own knuckles and cut down the cry. That spot was too much. This position was too much.

Boone doubled his speed. Boone kept right on ramming it. “Don’t come.”

It was a warning, but even that only brought him higher, made him want more. Want…

Boone’s strong arms both caught Vulpes by the hips, forced him back until tightly spread ass cheeks ground against pelvis. The cock twitched several times, leaked and spilled inside.

His own length screamed for it. Boone had come, he’d gotten his, could--

“Come.”

He could. He did. He let loose lines of white against the rocks and dry dirt below.

With a sigh, Boone pulled out and stood up. “Get dressed and grab the dirt. Break time’s over.”

Was that what Boone was calling it? How convenient, Vulpes still had to carry the dirt and now he was even sorer and probably sunburned. But he didn’t quite regret it. Even as come leaked from his entrance, spattered the ground beneath, he didn’t mind really. Quick enough, he redressed, grunted and lifted the dirt, and followed after Boone’s slow steps.

He knew the path. He knew how to get where he needed to go. He was a Prometheus, only in reverse; Vulpes was punished to violence and frustration _before_ he gained the intel needed to help his people.

He’d be free soon enough.

\---~~~---

It struck him, as he was shackled in with the spreaders, that he was being punished. He'd said or done something wrong. Reward and then punishment. That wasn't the order, not that quickly at least. He'd been good.

Boone knelt before him, looked him in the eyes. “Whoever I killed that you didn’t want me to? If they were Legion, I don’t regret it.”

Oh.

“Like you said,” Boone rose to full height and reached for the light chain, though he didn’t tug, “Everyone just wants to survive. If they came near my home, they wanted to kill me and mine. They deserved it.” He flicked the light off, then went up the steps silently. The door shut and locked in two places. Knob, and the bolt above.

Half of him expected Boone to not tell him what he’d said or done. Half of him expected Boone to do what he’d have done, make the slave--Make Vulpes-- think about it, worry about it until they were so concerned they begged for forgiveness for some unknown crime.

Not that he would have. He would not have done that.

Instead, he felt rage. Boone deserved what he’d gotten too. He deserved what he’d get. Vulpes shook with rage, not the chill of the basement. For the first time in he didn’t know how long, he let himself feel things as strongly as he wanted.

Finally, he collapsed to the side and glared through dampness at the window. Before morning came, he fell asleep, but not that much before.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past memories ring a bell for Vulpes.

 

He’d weighed his options. Stay, remain a slave and a puppet. Go, risk death by premature burial. Risk far more.

Boone came for reading time and Vulpes paid attention and asked all the right questions, just enough of the right questions. Boone had pushed into him, taken him right there on the chair, straddled over Boone’s lap.

It had been a reward. Boone had kissed him and stroked him and acted almost kind after the abandonment the day before.

Vulpes accepted it, leaned into it, encouraged it. Maybe he even enabled it, but he wouldn’t think on that.

Then Boone left and Vulpes was alone in the darkness. But he’d grown accustomed to that darkness and even a cloudy night, or perhaps a new moon, didn’t keep him from trying.

It wasn’t easy moving about silently, or at all, with his ankles strung together with his wrists and his everything spread out unreasonably. He hobbled and sometimes fell into a panicked hop, but he managed.

First, to the chair to see if more staples were loose. It took half an hour of fumbling around to find one, since Boone had reupholstered it after that attempt, but he did. Right there along the bottom edge, a tiny slip of ugly fabric had only enough lip he could pull it away. Staples came then, thick but malleable. Exactly what he needed.

Metal cut into his lips, pressed between them and held in place as he used his teeth to straighten it out. Fingerpads clutched at the other freed staples, ready to create more pins and picks to hasten his freedom.

He was Vulpes Inculta and it was time he started acting like it, dizziness and exhaustion be damned.

In complete darkness, Boone wouldn’t expect an escape attempt. He was chained up so well with no hope of escape, Boone wouldn’t expect him to try anyway. He’d behaved, he’d been good, Boone couldn’t see this coming.

He kept those thoughts, hopeful ones among a sea of uncertainty, at the front of his mind, right next to the memorized method of picking locks.

This time, he knew what to expect. His teeth had done it before and so they did it again. The shackles weren’t even that difficult to-- no, these locks weren’t a simple thing. Had Boone changed them?

New tactic. He wouldn’t be contained. Vulpes shifted his body over to the chair, gave himself a comfortable spot to attempt again. This time, he rose his bare right foot up and attempted to work the lock between toes and with his mouth.

It wasn’t comfortable, it didn’t work well, but eventually, he heard a pin slide into place. If he could only…

The pin dropped, left him back at the start.

He didn’t care. He switched feet, in case his dominant foot wasn’t the same as his hand. That thought caressed a bit of amusement over otherwise hyper-focused and slightly panicked thoughts.

Left foot at work, he felt one, then two pins slide into place. How many more remained, he couldn’t be sure. Boone had definitely changed the locks though. The tension, it didn’t seem the same at all.

At the dusty window, moonlight trickled in. Though dimmed by clouds and muck along the glass pane, it shone for him. Clouds must have passed by and it couldn't be a new moon. Things were in his favor.

He remained in the chair though, focused on using what he had already completed to finish the task. One more pin raised and, almost as a second thought, a secondary pin clicked into place. The cuff loosened, let him know his salvation had arrived.

It wasn’t ever easy picking locks, even simple ones. He made it look easy, he figured, but it wasn’t. It took confidence and skill and every bit of precision that could be mustered. Silus, for example, would be confined to a chair by nothing more than a few coils of hastily tied rope. Vulpes could have escaped that near instantaneously. He’d joked with Caesar, as Lucius raised Silus upon the pole, that perhaps he should have been the one caught, because he could have escaped and compromised so many of their plans.

Caesar had laughed, though soon after his head troubles had made him leave.

Silus had looked at him with no small amount of rage at a perceived betrayal.

Vulpes had left after a time, satisfied that a coward's death had been well earned.

The second wrist lock fell open. This time, he caught himself, then caught the bar before it could clank and clatter down. He set it astride the armrest.

Clicka, click, cliiiick. Pins pushed into place. Pins pushed into place. Everything was ok, it was all fine.

He caught the metal bar once more, set it and the chain that connected both bars right there on the seat cushion.

He’d considered breaking the glass and trying to crawl out, but he needed his stomach intact, not scattered over the rocks and seeds to be devoured by greedy mocking little birds.

He wondered which one of his frumentarius had betrayed his Inca dove secret. Whoever it was, he was glad Boone had killed them. They deserved it, for being so weak and betraying him.

With feet tops pressed up against the walls, and toes pointed down to cling to the edges, he ascended. He clung to the left-railing and determined to skip all offending steps, 3 and 10. Though awkward, his steps were silent. Perhaps he wasn’t as good at it as Boone, but he had a feeling Boone had practiced for innumerable hours to perfect his stealth on these steps in particular.

Vulpes didn’t have that patience but he was lucky he didn’t have to. Even with a slow climb, he reached the top within a minute.

His ear sealed against the door and he listened. Though the posture was uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to his prior positions on the ground, worn out like old dirt, spread out with no choice.

Nothing. It was always nothing though, unless Boone wanted to be heard.

Boone slept. He’d seen Boone sleep. He’d slept beside Boone on those rare days he was merely shackled to the bed. That chest rose and fell, those lips parted just enough to let a hint of solid white show, the softest snores sailed into the room and blanketed Vulpes.

He wouldn’t have to witness that anymore. He would be free.

Vulpes took his chance, he unlocked the knob, heard that distinctive click as the pins and his plans shifted into place.

He checked the door.

Boone. Foolish Boone, he hadn’t locked the deadbolt.

The door opened with nary even a creak, though Vulpes remained on guard for what would come. What could come.

Nothing came. There was darkness, with the barest hint of light to illuminate the area beneath the window. Open as ever, it signaled a silent escape.

Boone would regret leaving it open as a taunting signal. Boone would regret a lot of things, when he presented Killinger’s face on a plate. Or, perhaps, he’d cut mustached man down and leave him disassembled near Boone’s rubber welcome mat, a sign of what was to come. Two could play at the horrific remains serving as a warning game.

He stepped over the bird seed, positioned himself on the window sill, then stepped out into the outdoors.

Dozens of bells rang, harmonious in the tones of their soft tinkles and clangs, discordant to his own ears.

A tiny line, perhaps of fishing wire, sounded his escape. It tugged at the bells, hidden in a box attached neatly to the siding of the house. Had it been there the first time? Had he missed it? No. No no no.

Vulpes Inculta did not fall prey to such easy traps. Vulpes Inculta was not so easily beaten. Vulpes Inculta was stronger than this, better than this.

Vulpes Inculta did not fall to his knees, broken inside. Hopeless.

Boone looked down at him, but he did not fully look up.

Boone stepped forward, caught him by the back of the head. “Going for a walk?”

It really didn’t matter, did it? “I’d hoped to.” He’d have strolled down the path, headed east for as long as his feet could carry him in the darkness. The sun would have burned his nude skin, but he could have found safety, shelter.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

Well, it was an understatement, but Boone was so masterful of those. So skilled at ruses and traps too, wasn’t he? Forget being a sniper, Boone should have been a spy.

He kept his gaze fixed ahead. He held his hopes down but they didn’t put up much fight anyway.

“I thought you didn’t want to be buried.”

Panic was supposed to swell, to crest. To be buried alive was a fate worse than death, right up until death came. He didn’t want to crawl and push at dirt that kept coming. He didn’t want to feel pressure on his chest, dirt on his lids, everything so much until he finally expired. That was on par with crucifixion in his mind.

He shrugged.

Panic was supposed to come. He pushed it down too.

He wasn’t worthy of the title Vulpes Inculta, head of the frumentarii. Vulpes Inculta would have noticed that wire, even in the darkness, and found a way to not trip it. Vulpes Inculta would have realized that those steps were rigged from the start to trick him, would have noticed Boone sure seemed insistent on hitting the squeaky one even when he was otherwise silent coming down. Vulpes Inculta would not have been so easily cornered on the first escape attempt through the basement window.

Vulpes Inculta would never have been captured.

Cecil would never have wanted a frumentarius who was captured. Who was a coward.

He’d lost his edge. So what did it matter?

Boone forced his head back. Those dark eyes above were all pupil, a match to the bridled rage that lifted the near middle of Boone’s upper lip. “Answer me.”

Different than just answer. Answer me.

He blinked. “I don’t care.”

The grip loosened. Boone squinted, tight brows pulled lower over the eyes, and leaned in. “Why’s that?”

“You’re going to kill me anyway. Even if I didn’t try to run. You’re going to. It’s why you keep that plot there.”

Vulpes Inculta would have said something else. It could be defiant, but it wouldn’t be so pathetically cowed, yet so apathetic to the future.

Even Silus put up a better fight than this, that snub-nosed turncoat.

“Maybe.” Boone forced Vulpes in with one hand, pressed his nose against pelvis. “Maybe not.”

He used his teeth (no hands, Boone pushed those away) to pull the zipper down; he used his tongue and lips (no teeth, he didn’t even consider it) to pull the cock in. Though slow at first, unsteady, he moved forward and took most all of Boone in. There was a clean but salty taste along the tip that spread along the whole of Boone’s length.

It wasn’t unpleasant. Even piggybacked along his death, he didn’t mind it. He bobbed along, felt the swell of thickness in his throat nearly make him gag, but managed to keep that at bay.

Boone’s hands didn’t hurt him, but they guided. One hand clutched at the back of the head, while the other thumbed little circles over the right cheek. “Good.”

The briefest glance up, to see Boone say that, and he saw those same lidded eyes. They seemed dilated for a different reason.

Boone grew in his mouth, harder and thicker and closer to what he’d expected. That line along the underside rubbed against the middle of his tongue. The foreskin pulled back, fully exposed the thick head. That salty musky tang only grew more intense.

“If you ever try this again, I’ll drop you off at Cottonwood Cove myself with a list of what you’ve done here.”

What he’d done. Try. Fail.

He gagged a bit when Boone thrust in, so deep. He tried to maintain his composure but the cock within him kept on thrusting. He gagged more when Boone finished and held within, didn’t pull back and give him more room to swallow. Come dribbled down along his lips and onto his chin, slipped onto his exposed chest in sticky drops.

Boone kept his softening self inside. “You didn’t know about the others and where they were. Neither does the Legion. When you stay, they won’t have to know.”

He blinked up at those green eyes, so dark in the night. Boone could protect him from that. From them.

Boone withdrew finally, on the back end of a few final thrusts. “Will you behave?”

Boone gave far more chances than Vulpes Inculta would have, but Boone seemed to believe this was the last chance.

He believed it was too. He nodded. He meant it.

There were worse things than even being buried alive. Far worse things. He hadn’t kept things in perspective. He didn’t want to find out what they were.

Somewhere, he imagined, Lucius had a very nice dream imagining what those worse things were, exploring them with him.

Boone nodded and released his head. “Good. Crawl to the door.”

He obeyed.

Boone opened the door, like a man letting their dog inside. “Go in.”

He obeyed.

“Good. No, not towards the basement.”

He blinked. No?

“If I can’t trust you alone, you won’t be for long.”

Oh. Alright. To the bedroom, he crawled, with Boone’s steps right beside and slightly ahead of him.

The chains on his wrists were tight, but he didn’t fight. He didn’t struggle.

“Go to sleep.”

He was so tired. He’d been so tired for so long. Weeks into months he hadn’t slept much. He shut his eyes.

He fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GEDDIT, RING A BELL? the joke is, I'm awful and enjoy making fictional characters suffer.
> 
> One chapter left, and then it's onto the next series in this hell fic.
> 
> Hope to see y'all there.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reading time.

 

He finished digging the hole. He glanced back to see what needed to be done next.

Boone lifted the thick bag of rich dirt and handed him a knife.

He reached out and cut along the seam at the corner until about halfway across the top of the bag.

Boone took the knife back and motioned for him to help pour the dirt out in an even manner over the rocky soil. “Just like that. Smooth and easy.”

Smooth and easy. Like a kitten. He nodded, remembered the Tops, and pushed it away just as quick. “What are you planting?”

“We’re planting potatoes. It’s easier growing them than trekking all that way for a bag.”

He nodded. A moment later, Boone helped him settle onto his knees. Little nudges of the boot in front of him told him what to do, so he reached forward and spread the dirt even further over the shallow hole.

“Now make troughs and put the chunks in.” Boone pointed to the dirt, then to the sliced bits of seeded potato in the box beside the hole.

He followed instructions.

“It’s about winter. We should have some soon.”

He nodded. It had been early summer when Gomorrah. It had been the prime xander root season. Broc flowers had bloomed gloriously. But they both started to brown and shrivel a bit, not quite hardy enough to last all through the winter it seemed.

It took hours of work in the sunlight. He’d have burned, but Boone let him wear that red plaid shirt and pants.

\---~~~---

Boone shifted beneath him. Arms wrapped around his waist and reached lower, beneath the line of the cool water. “There’s more to plant tomorrow.” Casual words with casual actions, Boone stroked him up to half-hardness with only a few touches.

“Alright.” His breath hitched, his body squirmed and rubbed down against Boone’s length. It wasn’t in yet, but it was hard already and he knew what that meant. “More vegetables?”

“Yeah. Maybe even a tree, or a few. I know someone who sells saplings.”

A tree would be nice. It could provide some excellent shade and cool down the house too if it grew large enough and took to the soil well.

Boone reached down, pressed a wet finger along his entrance. It prodded and rubbed insistently before it finally pushed in deep.

He moaned low, rocked against the finger within. “Please.”

“Please what?” Boone’s breath fluttered against his neck.

He blinked. Words weren’t coming so well, but he managed, “Another please.” That satisfying fullness, that wrapped enclosure around him that brought good things and was a wonderful thing all by itself.

Another finger pushed in, “Like this?”

He knew the game. He nodded and spread his legs a bit wider in the bathtub. Hands reached up and curled over the sides of the porcelain. “Please more.”

Boone nodded, that smooth-shaven chin pleasant against the slope of his neck. “Do you want all of it?”

All of it. He’d stretch. It’d hurt. But he’d get it faster.

He nodded, “Please, I want you inside.”

Boone wasn’t subtle on some things. There, he just lifted then pulled down until thick length found its way all in. Boone grunted, loud and satisfied. Then those hips and hands worked so nicely together.

He whimpered, so full, so tight around Boone. Fingers dug hard at the thick bathtub walls, curled around the under the edge and sought purchase when everything was so intense. He burned, despite the cool water around him. He took it. Enjoyed it even; a little pain wasn’t too much.

Boone sucked at his throat, left marks no doubt. Teeth bit and nibbled, but nothing so hard it hurt more than a momentary shock to punctuate the thrusts. Those thrusts were intense, but not brutal. Rough, but not cruel. Deep, so deep, but not deep enough.

He pushed himself down over Boone, accepted them in until he felt them fully bottom within.

One hand roughly jerked him off, while the other caught him by the chin and turned him, “You’re mine, you know.” Thrusts up splashed water roiled it against the bathtub and over the edges.

“I know.” He knew. He blinked, panted, and lay back against Boone’s chest. Hands, hips, length, words, nips, it was all too much. He stained the water with lazy strings of white, added to the dirt and sediment they’d already scrubbed off into the tub.

Boone lifted him with ease, pushed him over the edge of the tub until his hands touched the tiles, and returned to heavy thrusting. “You’re mine.”

He knew. He felt every inch, gasped as it pushed deeper than even a minute before. Nails clawed at the tiles, but not in an attempt to escape. He just couldn’t help it. His toes curled too, angled sharply against the tub bottom.

Boone clutched both of his hips, tugged him in and back, demanded everything.

He gave. He took. He gave. He panted against the mostly dry end of the chipped white porcelain, while his fingers and toes spread and tried to regain some grip.

Boone didn’t stop thrusting until come leaked down, dripped into the water below, signaled Boone had finished a bit before. Finally, he eased up, pulled back, and motioned for them both to sit again. “Come on.”

He listened, sat back over Boone’s lap, and listened to Boone’s heartbeat go from frenzied to calm again faster than he’d have expected.

Slow motions rubbed the washcloth over his length, along his thighs, up his chest. Not long after, the plug was pulled. Instead of rising, Boone kept them both in the tub until the water receded away.

His body squirmed, felt the pressure increase in minute, but noticeable, bits until he felt like a firm thick blanket wrapped all around his body until it felt like Boone was somehow on top and beneath him all at once.

Then the last bit of water swirled down the drain and it felt normal again.

Boone helped him get out of the tub, assisted him with his towel. Strong hands rubbed him down with the cotton over the plush blue bathmat, as though the floor weren’t already soaked with their rough play.

Dried off, Boone lead them both to the bedroom and into bed. As soon as Boone secured the shackles, he pulled out the massive leather encyclopedia and set it along the edge of one bent leg.

Reading time. He liked it. He waited a moment before he shifted a bit closer, pressed himself against Boone.

Boone wrapped one arm loosely under his neck, shifted closer as well, and allowed him to lay pressed up entirely against Boone.

The page landed at Rome again. They read and learned about what it was like. Without redactions and censoring.

Boone shut the book and moved it over onto the nightstand to the left with a single huff of effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF you want to see just where the fuck a broken Vulpes/Fox could possibly go after this, read part two in the series.
> 
> IF you think I am the worst and an absolute degenerate--I mean but you're not wrong.
> 
> Please comment or kudos if you enjoyed this, you twisted piece of human.
> 
>  
> 
> Interested in talking to me and saying what you feel about a story, but nervous to leave a comment? Have prompts and want to maybe see them come to life?
> 
>  
> 
> [Join my discord server!](https://discord.gg/JYfyT9V)

**Author's Note:**

> It only goes down from here, folks, just like Vulpes does eventually.


End file.
